


Problemstuck

by Alhazardous



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kink Meme Prompt Fill, Multi, Pseudo-noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alhazardous/pseuds/Alhazardous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suffering is the norm in the City of Midnight, plagued as it is by danger and destruction, and even on the best of days it can be a challenge getting by. When fresh-faced rookie John Egbert is stuck with what looks like another unassuming murder case in Skaia's long history of blood, under the tutelage of his legendary veteran of a foster father, he must come to terms with himself and his own powers to do what he wants to do most: protect others, and find the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which We Start Near The End

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt in question can be found at http://homesmut.livejournal.com/6376.html?thread=6701544#t6701544 where the fill itself is available for perusal in its original, unrevised format.  
> Please enjoy! :D

There's a thin, fine line between right and wrong, and you think the kid's just crossed it.

Twenty meters between you and them, the longest twenty meters in your life since you first met the kid fourteen years ago. You are, for lack of a better way of putting it, trapped in a tight corner behind a line of boxes that tower over you like...like something that towers. Maybe a tower. You scratch that metaphor out and thank your lucky stars that you kept it to yourself. Only so many times a man can utterly humiliate himself with his inability to chain a coherent string of words together into a sentence before people start to think he's an idiot in a detective's outfit.

You know the boxes are full of busts because that's all this factory makes: busts, busts, and more busts, day in, day out. You've done business here before, mostly dirty business but business nonetheless. It's comforting that you have all that marble to fall back on if you run out of cover elsewhere, though whether it'll do you any good in the thick of a firefight is a different story entirely. It's the only line of defense between you and those kids past the conveyor belts that are slowly but surely edging towards him, unfortunately, closing the gap that's keeping you alive, and you put your faith in the god of sculpture and all that, praying he'll see fit to lend his protection to you and let you live to see another day.

You're glad neither Ace Dick nor Pickle Inspector are around to see everything come crashing down around you. They're up to their necks in bullshit elsewhere, most likely, trying to fend off more of English's thugs, hopefully in time (and that little pun makes you smile) to save you later. The Midnight Crew, on the other hand, are “done with the fucking infighting”, apparently. Slick's thrown his lot in with the punks at SCorp, on the promise that when all's said and done, he'll have the city. Not SCorp, they'll have the profits instead – not English, not Trollian Solutions, not even the fucking private detectives, your lot that's claimed so much ground, shed so much blood, fought tooth and nail for the Crew, out of foolish belief that they'd be the least of many evils. No, for that bastard's lot, the truth turned out to be that it's what they can get away with after the city's been painted with blood, likely carapace-person blood, that matters. Not integrity, pride, morals, honour, or any of those sweetly-sung stories that'd roped you all in. It'd all been lies, pretty, eloquent, but meaningless in the end. Meretricious, PI had always said. Too bad you hadn't listened when you'd had the chance.

Another gunshot rings clearly in the late evening quiet, shattering the relative peace of your thoughts like fine china thrown at a solid steel wall. Shouting, indistinct but loud, more voices than you can put names to, sounds from outside the factory and you curse under his breath. You've taken too long. Too many fucking variables. It's game over if you don't get out now and god damn it, you are not letting it all end now, not when you know how to fix the problem, how to repair the tenuous armistice between the city's criminals that'd danced so elegantly on the tripwire of gang warfare before things had started to go wrong.

There's a match in you hand before you can count to two, and by three it's already soaring through the air towards a gas leak on the other side of the room. You hope your throwing arm's put enough power into it to get the damn flame there, but you're not certain; the match crests too early, arcing down towards the ground just a couple of meters short. That pisses you off, more than he can bear, but when you throw the second it works out a lot better, gently curving through the empty air before lightly tapping the open pipe.

Something so small shouldn't explode so monstrously, you think, slamming your hands over your ears to protect them from the sound. You feel the world shift around you, quivering and shaking the same way the many hysterical dames you've assisted through the years often tended to, but the force of the blast isn't enough to tear the factory down, though shrapnel does shred the hardened crates like a hot knife through particularly thick butter, a flying splinter of wood slicing through the sleeve of your last good suit and cutting a gash right across your arm. It's bleeding, but it's not too deep, so you shoulder through the pain, turning and glancing over to the place you'd been aiming for before.

A fire's started raging, thankfully contained by the warehouse's thick metal walls. It's not going to be pretty when the shit hits the fan with that one. This factory is expensive to run, but it churns out a tidy profit at the end of the day, and you've just destroyed it in the name of your own revenge. Hopefully you haven't left any evidence...if you survives, he correct yourself, eyes still scanning the room for your targets.

There they are. A girder's been toppled and the roof has caved in without its support, and they're both trapped by the encroaching flames. It's a strange sight, eerily satisfying but more than a little worrying – the blond boy, the one with the pointy tinted glasses, looks like one of his arms has been broken, but he's still cradling the other one in his arms. He's covered in blood, skin black and blue (bruises like a peach, you note, for future reference), and you're fairly certain he's been burned pretty badly, but he still only has eyes for the other kid, practically in tears as he desperately tries to push them both from the wreckage. You know he won't cry, he's too stoic, too self-absorbed for that, but seeing some emotion on his face is gratifying. Lets you know he's human. Maybe you could have come to an understanding some day, if you'd given each other a fair chance.

The other boy is the one you care about, though, the one that matters. You can't quite tell how badly he's injured, and your heart threatens to stop when you hear a stifled sob from his direction, but the noise of the flames is too much for you to make anything out, regardless of whether they're talking or not. He's got a gun in his hand, but his fingers are loose around the grip, twitching a little bit every now and then.

You spring from your position, hoping you can make it to them before things get worse. This wasn't what you wanted, never what you wanted, but now it's here, here to stay, and you've got to do something to make this whole fucking fiasco a little bit better. He's the only thing that matters, the only thing that's ever really mattered, and fuck, you're not going to give up on him just yet, even if he's fired shots at you.

People call you Problem Sleuth, so you suppose it's your name. His name is John Egbert, and him being the most important thing in your life is the only thing you are certain about.

*

...But it's a bit too early for all that. Why don't we take a step back, start at the very beginning, and really come to an understanding?

After all, we've got all the time in the world.


	2. In Which The Ball Starts Rolling

The year is 7 of Aquarius. The day, you don't know, though the 14 th day of the third month makes the most sense. With all these calendar revisions it's hard to follow specific dates, but you don't really need to, anyway – every day is the same. In the daylight hours, you work, hunting down criminals in the most hard-boiled manner a rookie private inspector like you can, and in the night, you sleep. Unless, of course, you're not sleeping, but that's rare. You tend to avoid being awake in the dark, for reasons that have never quite made sense.

(Maybe it's that moon. You know the one. The purple one, that hangs ominously in the sky when it's too dark to see anything else. The yellow one, you can live with, but imagining what might be sleeping in the inky midnight blackness of the purple moon has always given you nightmares.)

You've just finished with a particularly unusual case, and somehow, you think you might have managed to save the universe while doing it. You haven't had much experience otherwise – life seemed almost like a game while you were trapped in your office – but you know you've got the skills you need to get ahead now, and after everything else, you're confident that whatever you encounter in the future won't get you down. You, AD, PI, you're the city's foremost lawmen, staunchly proud bastions of justice in the dilapidated cesspit that is Midnight City, and after taking down the Mobster Kingpin you know the jobs will be flooding in. Everyone knows. Even the Crew, stubborn bastards that they are, have sent you a fruit basket.  _ Congratulations_, Droog had said, though you weren't sure how sincere he was and you don't think you'll ever know.  _ Thanks for taking him off our hands_, and with a relaxed, dismissive wave of one of his finely-manicured hands, he'd left.

Smooth bastard. Completely insufferable, definitely too damn clever for anyone else's good, but smooth. You give him that because you're in a good mood, and you're generous.

The world is your oyster now. Human, troll, carapace, it doesn't matter. They'll all be coming to you, because, well, who else is there?

  
*

The year is 11, still Aquarius (and you hate that, because Aquarius is the hottest cycle, too hot for you, but you were born at the tail end of Capricorn and you don't know if you'll live to see Cancer, which you've been told is the best time to live in, so you've got next to nothing to compare to), and you're a legend in this city. SCorp themselves have dropped hints about hiring you and your team on. The new start-up, Trollian Solutions, they've been hounding you for weeks about leading their security division. You had the opportunity to dine with Slick, you discussed business with him, you both came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Lord English nodded at you. You don't think life can get any better than this, and you know why – because you're at the top. You've played the game the way you know best, with your stunning charisma and brilliant mind, and you've done it so well that even the people who make the rules have stopped to admire your methods.

You don't know what'll happen next, honestly, because if there's one thing you've come to understand it's that tempting fate never works out well for anybody. But you're certain that whatever comes your way, you can handle it. Who else could?

*

12, Aquarius. Not too long after the big breakthrough in the Hussie murder case. You've put the perps behind bars, some vicious bastards with a freakish obsession over some artist, you don't know who and now you don't even care, and you're following up a peculiar lead that points to a cult dedicated solely to the worship of this guy. Apparently they'd felt spurned by something he'd done in one of his more recent works. You find it hard to give a shit, because you think he's just another sap, getting played by the system, but you amuse yourself wondering what life would be like if people like him were in control. If somehow, they set the rules, deciding every minute detail, every major factor, in your life.

You don't entertain the thought for very long, because it's stupid. You're in control now, and no-one can take that away from you.

All the papers are talking about it, but it's trivial to you now that all's said and done. It is curious, though. How will his empire stay afloat without him to guide it? When you find out he's prepared for all occasions (a troll body, cultivated solely as insurance in the event of some catastrophic disaster), you can't help but laugh. He's in control too.

Later, you check out his work. It's interesting. Maybe you'll give it a look.

*

12, Aquarius, still. You've just gotten out of the hospital after spending three months in an underground holding cell, tortured, underfed, and mindlessly bored. You contemplate why the fuck you had to tempt fate with those damn cultists. They're brutal, relentless, and they don't like people like you making fun of their god.

On the bright side, they're all dead. You notch that one up on your bedpost – another successful conquest.

*

 

You have lived a long life so far, and you're only just hitting your early-middle-age. You feel like a fine wine, vintage but not overly aged, or a champion runner who's just hit his stride. Things honestly can't get any better, and though you've had a few hiccups along the way, you've got enough money set aside to go into a long, easy retirement. You suppose you'll miss the excitement, but after this one last job, you're done. You don't want to be in the line of fire all the time anymore, constantly worrying about whether you'll live to see the next day. You have a cat to feed, a memoir to write, and a cushy job in the private sector to take, hopefully followed by a promising career in politics. Maybe a dame or two along the way. You have plans, damn it all! Life has gotten in the way of what you want for too long now.

PI gets it. He knows what it's like, not being able to slow down. You don't know how he gets it, because no one in the universe is slower than him, but damn if he isn't understanding. You suppose it's all thanks to his buddy, though buddy isn't quite the right word to describe an immortal, perfect creator, ruling over the universe with a kind, benevolent hand, who just happens to be you from a few years ago. PI says that doesn't matter, though; what matters is that the lesson's been learned. That was all that ever mattered. The moral of the story. You brush it off, because your life isn't an after-school special.

AD doesn't get it, and you're not surprised, because he's lived enough lives now, and his sons – the kid that happens to be part-god, and the kid that happens to be part-superhero – are both grown up, so he has nothing left to worry about. He just wants to go out in a blaze of glory. You won't begrudge him that. It's not easy being AD, and you don't expect him to up and retire with you, but the years have forged a bond between you two that's nothing if not unbreakable, and you don't want to lose that. Fuck the past. You're best friends, brothers in arms, and if he wants to go get himself shot up in the line of fire you're not going to stop him. You know how it feels.

You're the only one who never really had the opportunity to grow, stuck in a body that burned with the fires of heroism and pulchritude. You've been living the life of a starry-eyed kid for years, and it's about time you grew up, settled down, and started acting like an adult.

At least, that's what Hysterical Dame says. She wants you to settle down. But inside, you don't think you're as happy about it as she is, and you're not looking forward to a life of restless boredom.

It's 14 of Aquarius, quite close to the beginning of Pisces, and you just know getting engaged is the biggest mistake of your admittedly-storied life.

*

It's the last week of 14 Aquarius, and you're stationed outside a warehouse waiting for a car to drive out the front gate, towards an apartment building three blocks down, that PI and AD are staking out. You're finding it hard to concentrate. All you can hear is HD screaming at you, questions you can't really answer – about why you're so selfish, why you can't think of anyone but yourself, your inability to commit, whether you really love her at all – and you have no answers for any of them, unless simply not caring enough to tick a box is an answer. Apathy has become the norm for you in your personal life during the run-up to this mission, a single, focused drive that is concerned only with success here, and you're desperate to make sure nothing goes wrong, because otherwise, what's all this sacrifice worth?

SCorp have been playing fast and loose with the law. Two of their higher-ranking officials, a Mrs. Lalonde and a Mr. Egbert, have come to you for help – their children are in danger, they say. The eggheads want them. The girl is a candidate for communion with the strange creatures you've been hearing about that haunt the night-time darkness, the Terrorhorrors (or something along those lines, you didn't pay much attention to that rumour) and the boy is a prime candidate for the Apotheosis Process. You know what that is, because PI has had experience with it. It's a nightmare, pure and simple, the worst thing you can do to a person, but this brat's apparently the number one candidate in the city for it right now. He's only a kid, something like four years old, and you feel a twinge of sympathy for the dad – he's a good guy. One of the nicest guys you've ever met, truth be told.

Unfortunately, they used to say the same about you too. And you know nice guys finish last.

Lalonde, on the other hand, is an ice queen. She obviously cares about her kid, but she's too much of a stone-cold passive-aggressive bitch to show it, and you just know that's going to wreak havoc on the little blighter's growth. You try hard not to care, though it's difficult, focusing on the job. They're both in there, with a couple of others – a Mr. Harley, who you know very little about (his grandkid is supposed to be a future Company Executive, an ancient, powerful race that you're sure were once called the First Guardians), and two Striders. They're barely out of their teens themselves, but they're the hardest bastards you've ever seen. Even Lalonde seems cowed by them.

You're sure he's in there. The one person who could possibly make this a problem. You're waiting for a shoot-out, and you're the best gun in the city, that's why they hired you, but if you're right about this (and your instincts haven't been wrong before, not for a long time) it doesn't matter what sort of firepower you've brought because you're fucked. The Felt have always worked closely with SCorp and this is no different.

You know Scratch is on your side. It's rare that he is, and the oblique bastard definitely has some sort of ulterior motive, but you don't have to worry about him. It's English you're worried about.

English hates SCorp, Midnight Crew, Trollian. He hates humans, hates trolls, hates carapaces. He's full of indiscriminate hate, wild, dark and stormy, but most of the time that isn't a problem. He's an elusive man, holed up in his mansion, even though a guy like him has nothing to worry about, but if he's deigned to step out today, and come down here, you could call the entire of your old group in, even Death and GPI, and it'd still be too little to slow the fucker down.

Invincible demon your ass. It's not fair that someone be so...so...so unstoppable. Makes things so much harder on the little guys.

The sound of a shot startles you out of your reverie, and your attention is drawn back to the warehouse when the kick of a stuttering engine pierces the veil of silence that's been drawn over you. More gunshots. You jump to your feet and lunge forward, pressing yourself up against the wall as you peek around your cover, but there's nothing there, and you exhale, a shaky sigh of relief as you scan the rest of the building for anything you might have missed.

In the other direction, The Felt have just driven off – Itchy, Cans, Crowbar, Sawbuck and Doze – and you're fairly certain they're the only guys who've turned up. SCorp wouldn't be stupid enough to bring out the heavy artillery without provocation, you know that, and the only thing that could provoke them would be an uprising – but that won't happen. English would put it down before it ever threatened his company. He's the major shareholder in the business that runs the universe and you'd be a monkey's uncle if he ever let their stock value drop below infinity.

The sound of a drawn-in breath, quick and strangled, catches your ear, and you rush to what you believe is the source. When you find it, you drop to your knees, because you know in a similar situation, the same thing could have happened to you.

In front of you lies a man in a fairly dapper business suit. He has a colossal nose, but it speaks of manliness, and it fits his face, crowned with the finest hat you've ever seen (you'd been ever so jealous when you'd first laid eyes upon it). His eyes are glazed over and empty, mouth lined with blood as he struggles to draw breath, and as you cast your gaze across the length of his form, you take in more details than you could have ever wished to. He's been shot, twice, once in the knee and once in the lung, and he's dying more quickly than you can possibly summon anyone to save him. It's over, and he knows it. His clothes are stained with blood, trickling down the sides of his stomach and leg as he futilely attempts to push himself off the ground. You rest one hand over him and push him back down, and he gasps, a strained sound that fills you with pity and sorrow.

He knows he can't get up, and he knows better than to waste his energy. His eyes, still unfocused but at least now a little bit more alive, stray down to his hand. In it he holds a wallet, the sort of fine leather thing only a proper businessman carries, and you take it. He appreciates the gesture. His other hand flexes uncontrollably, opening and closing, and you grasp it, uttering some meaningless words to make the gesture more sympathetic, more sincere.

He's thankful. You watch as he fades away, then close his eyes. You leave before his carcass voids its bowels.

Lalonde is nowhere to be seen, and you're certain she never turned up anyway. You never saw her. PI and AD were staking out one of her estates, in order to meet her there, and they haven't reported in – this entire thing has been a set-up. Lalonde believes she gets to keep her kid (SCorp will fuck her over anyway, no doubts about that) and a particularly troublesome employee is put out of the way. You understand the business sense behind it, but all you can do is condemn this fucking hypercapitalist economy for killing an innocent man. You're no fool, you know how the world works, that it's necessary for good people to suffer so the planet keeps turning, but it doesn't make it any less easy to stomach.

The boy is in trouble, you realise with a jolt, and you hurriedly open the wallet. You're not surprised by most of its contents – innumerable pictures of the kid, Mrs. Lalonde (they'd been in love, surely he'd understand), some cards, cash, keys. The sylladex portion (all this newfangled inventory technology goes way over your head) is like a treasure trove – one ton of shaving cream, a brand new car, a laptop. You're going to need that car, you realise, because the last item you find is a message for you.

 _ Save my son, _ it says.  _ I need you to do this for me, PS. You're the only one who can. Tell Liza I forgive her. _

The card also contains a recorded holo-message. You decide to leave that one – it's probably for his kid, you decide, judging by the big “To John” marquee written down its side.

You're angry, and sad, and a little bit disappointed, that someone could know exactly what would happen and still go through with it. You're not a religious man, and you're not a philosopher either, but all you can think is “fuck determinism” when you stow everything back in the wallet except the keys and the car, before going for a joyride.

When you arrive at your destination – the address on the card – you find a nursery. It's quite busy, staffed with a mixture of humans, carapaces, those weird lusus things, and a few trolls here and there (you'll never understand trolls, honestly, why they are the way they are is beyond you) but the number of screaming, snot-nosed tykes cavorting around the place is just...wow. You can't get your head around it. How can these people deal with so many kids? You're almost thankful you never agreed to have one of your own. You couldn't handle it, and you doubt HD could either.

You flag down one of the idle caretakers, and after a quick conversation, you're taken over to a corner where a group of older children are sat around a table, playing with paints and crayons. Hopefully non-toxic, considering a little troll wriggler is gnawing on a red one. She seems to be enjoying the taste.

As you watch one of the lusii snatch the crayon away from her (and she begins to cry, naturally), the other caretaker, a wrinkled, matronly old woman with a gentle smile plastered over her face, softly nudges a young child in your direction, until he's standing right in front of you. You kneel down to get a good look at him.

He's possibly the most angelic little thing you've ever seen, a shock of thick black hair draped over his head, the fringe poking his huge, baby-blue eyes that are hidden under big square glasses. He looks a lot like his dad, actually, and judging by his questioning silence, and the cheeky but respectful grin on his face, he acts a lot like him too. You recall pies to the face being a general trend of your meetings with Mr. Egbert.

The boy's eyes are downcast, but after a while he looks up at you, fidgeting nervously. You're already smitten by this kid, you realise, and that's not good at all, because you can't. You just can't. Even if his dad's gone. He'll have to go to an orphanage, or something. You can care for him for a few days, but that's it. Really.

As you take his hand, to lead him out of the building, he waves goodbye to his friends, who already seem to be more than a little depressed by his departure. They're bickering childishly, and one of them, a little blond boy, is starting after you, but another kid holds him back, and then you're gone, listening to him chatter about whatever's on his mind.

You nod inattentively, already regretting this entire thing. You can't handle a kid. You can barely handle yourself, let alone dependents.

But, when he smiles up at you with the biggest smile you've ever seen on anyone, sober or otherwise, you think things may just end up being alright, once the shit is done hitting the fan.

You don't say that, though.


	3. In Which The Problems Start

Your first day with John Egbert is fairly uneventful. You can't take him to his dad just yet; PI and AD need you to look over the security footage from Lalonde's compound tonight, just to make certain that she's not already dead herself, and you don't want to argue. Possibly saving a life seems like a far more heroic pursuit than certainly destroying one, and truth be told, you like the kid. He's good company, quiet but warm and friendly. Inquisitive when he needs to be. You can't get over how much like his dad he is, and you wonder if you'll ever be able to fill that role for him, with the way he idolises the guy.

 

You strike that thought from the record. Comparing yourself with his dad already? You've known him for a few hours at best, and there's no way you'll see this kid again after this case is closed. Straight to the city's social services, where he'll live a difficult and empty life, eventually being thrown into a city that'll gobble a kid like him up faster than he can raise his head to look up at the skyscrapers. A life without innocence, without hope, without meaning, with a short and sharp ending when some overzealous punk with a gun decides to shove it in his face.

 

Fuck. You can't concentrate. You hold your head in your hands, rubbing your temples to relieve the dull ache that throbs behind your eyes.

 

It's been a tough day, you know that, and you can't work now. Not with what you've seen. Something like that shouldn't have affected you the way it has, one trivial death isn't worth the agony and guilt you're feeling right now, but it's there and you can't deny it. You've always made a point of refusing to become personally involved with cases in the past...you suppose now you know why. It isn't worth the trouble.

 

Your study has always been a tip – you don't want to part with the cash for a live-in maid, not when you don't mind living in squalor – and tiptoeing around the piles of worthless garbage while making as little noise as possible is a joke to a guy like you. You're not PI or AD, so you don't have to worry about being a clumsy, graceless lummox, though you do shoot them an inner apology for thinking things like that about your two closest friends. Truth hurts, you guess.

 

In the lounge, the TV has been left running, but no one's on the couch to watch it. You'd offered to let Egbert sleep in your bed while you took the couch, and it looks eerily inviting the way you've done it up, goose-down pillows at each end, drowned in your thickest quilt. You could honestly get used to living like this, but you refuse to, because your bed is your bed and there's really no reason for you to spend more time on the couch than you need to. You draw the curtains over the windows, shutting out the light that floods your penthouse apartment, and you sigh immediately afterwards, eyes quickly acclimatising to the darkness. You can't stop yawning, now, and you stretch, falling backwards onto the couch and using your remote to shut the TV off.

 

You're so shattered you drift off immediately, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

Your second day with John Egbert should have been fairly uneventful as well – instead, you end up living a dream for 24 hours. When you wake up in the morning, cramped and aching from your uncomfortable sleeping position, you're grumpy as ever (not a morning person, not until you've had ten cups of coffee and a smoke), and you quickly smooth your mussed-up hair out of your face. You need a haircut, or a hat, and if you don't get one or the other soon you're going to be a raging ball of smoldering hate for the rest of the day. You don't think that'd be good for the kid.

 

Noting that you fell asleep in your clothes (suit, coat, shoes and all), you pull yourself to your feet with as much energy as you can muster. It's not much, and you wish you could slump back down and catch some more shuteye, but the sound of laughter and singing from the kitchen is an unusual one, and you manage to convince yourself that checking out who it is that's invading your personal space is a good idea.

 

After you've dragged yourself to the kitchen, you're greeted with a satisfying sight, if only temporarily. HD is at the sink, and apparently in a much better mood, but she's not alone, little helper John wandering around her, pots and pans in hand. He tugs on her skirt every now and then, and she leans over to pat him on the head, hug him, even give him a kiss – it's like they're perfect together. She's radiant, like mothering is her element, and John is too, smiling and playing with glee even as he chirps at her.

 

You lean in the doorway for a while, taking it all in. She's happy, he's happy, and for once, you're happy too. Perhaps a family is what you've been after all along.

 

When she finally notices you, she grins the brightest grin you've seen on her in a long time, and sidles up to you to plant a chaste kiss on your lips. You've been revitalised, of course, by the sudden change in your life's direction, and you cheekily pull her in for the longest, most romantic smooch you've shared in a long time, catching her as she swoons into your arms. You stay there for a moment, before you hear a sound of mock-retching from by the sink, where the child (four years old, your mind shouts at you) has a bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other, mixing something together as he pretends to throw up. He looks like a natural chef. You're all in your element, you realise as you chase him around the room, and he's shrieking and laughing like you're all family even though you know you're not, not yet, but you can accept that it could be, someday. You're practically almost there. HD is laughing in her own little way, covering her mouth as she tries to suppress the fits of giggles threatening to break free, and you know that despite what's happened in the past, this is what you two want. You just hadn't had the opportunity to find it yet.

 

*

 

The third, fourth, and fifth days are the same. By the beginning of the sixth day you know that the dream, the euphoria, it's got to end. The boy needs to learn the truth some time, and you feel sick and nauseous hiding it from him. He's very quick to trust, as most children are (naïve, stupid, dangerous, you think, bemoaning your inability to avoid doing the same) and he wears his heart on his sleeve, a bright spot in what had been your drab and dull life. HD is happier than she's been...well, ever. You know her friends aren't like that, they're career women, but HD isn't exactly some matron-type herself – she's lived as much as you have, and she's one of the best businesswomen in the city. It's just that she happens to be a family woman as well, and you're finally coming to realise that that's what you need to give each other. A family.

 

When PI calls you up, you chat a little about the case. Nothing important, because PI's working right now, but you tell him you've found nothing of note in the security footage, so it's time you started working out how to deal with Egbert. He says he's finished reclaiming the body from the warehouse. You're grateful. PI always deals with the minutiae, the bullshit you can't bring yourself to handle, and he's never let you down. When he says he's got to go, you tell him to watch himself, because SCorp won't be happy with what you've all done. He laughs you off, light, airy and confident as always, hanging up the line before you have a chance to get the last word in. You're a bit miffed about that, but you let it slide, because by now, you're used to never getting the last word in. You don't really need to anyway.

 

Your conversation with AD, on the other hand, is one of the most pointless (and most rewarding, weirdly enough) you've ever had. You end up gushing about emotions, problems, family, love, all that jazz that you've never brought up to anyone else, but he's as understanding as you've come to expect from someone who's lived as many lives as him, and you end up feeling much better afterwards. You're no dame. You know that, damn it. Just because you want to talk about this shit doesn't make you any less of a man. But he knows that too, and he's warm, kind, and comforting, and his little ethnic tics send you into hysterics whenever you hear them, despite neither of you knowing where they originate from. He's your best friend, so you feel fine with venting.

 

After all's said and done, you come to a conclusion, and you share it with HD. She's apprehensive, but you both agree John deserves to know the truth. His dad is dead. The only thing you disagree on is what to do with him – she wants to adopt, you're not sure if that's the right thing to do. You decide to sleep on it.

 

*

 

You sleep on it for a week before you finally summon the courage to do the right thing. John hasn't been to his daycare this whole time, because he's been too busy with HD and her friend, Nervous Broad; they've been treating him like a dress-up doll, but he doesn't seem to mind. You talk to him a lot, and he tells you that his friend Rose does the same thing. You don't know who Rose is – probably some brat – but if he isn't the most adorable thing, you don't know what is. Even GPI fondly regards his decoration.

 

That isn't the point of it, though, and one night when HD is working and you're alone with the kid, you tell him the truth. So far he's been perfect, and you haven't had to deal with tears or tantrums at all – nothing has gone wrong. You expect that to change here. What you get is a different reaction entirely.

 

John looks at you for a moment as though you're not really there. His lower lip wobbles and water starts to build up around his eyes. His pupils dilate, almost consuming his irises, and he pales, before he falls out of his seat. You catch him, gently lifting him back up, but it doesn't matter, because he isn't paying attention to you, or anything; he just puts his head in his hands and cries.

 

It's not a loud, wracking cry, or a sniffling sob. He's silent. The only reason you know he's crying are the tears streaming down his cheeks faster than water flooding a broken dam, and the sound of air being sucked in, then gasped out. The process repeats itself. It's near heartbreaking watching him, but he's too young for it to break him forever, and you hope beyond hope that you haven't irreparably damaged him. That'd be too much.

 

You sit with him for a good twenty minutes. After five minutes he's dehydrated, no longer able to cry tears, but his face has been stained by a track of water that cuts through the dirt covering his cheeks like a blade of light (he'd been playing outside earlier, it seems almost like everything's been pre-ordained to make you feel as bad as possible) and you can still feel his body shivering and writhing beneath the arm you've wrapped around his shoulders. You're holding him as tightly as you can, and for the first time, you wish you were human, not a carapace – a human would be warmer, softer, more familiar, and definitely better at this than you are. Unfortunately, no divine entity reaches down from the sky to change the very fabric of your being for the benefit of this grieving child, so you settle for what you can give, and give as much of yourself as you can. You know he'll be distraught for a long time, but he's young, and he'll grow. It won't dominate him his entire life.

 

When HD returns, she sets about trying to make him feel better, though you both know you have to let the process run its natural course. You vow never to let this happen in your city again, though you know it's a promise you can't keep; the knowledge that you've made the covenant, though, is enough to motivate you. Your decision is final – it's not the end for you. HD isn't happy, she worries about you, but she understands. There's got to be someone to protect the weak, and you'll be damned if anyone else can do it as well as you do.

 

By the end of the fourteenth day, you've submitted the adoption papers. Now all you can do is wait.


	4. In Which Our Protagonist's Life Gets Started

The sun has set on the last day of the first calendar year of Pisces, and you are reviewing the particulars of a case that has hounded you for what makes easily ninety percent of the last nineteen months of your life. It’s a devilish case, full of twists, turns, red herrings and dead ends, but by this point you know you’ve cracked it. There’s no way you haven’t - if it were a game, this would be the final disc, and you’d be preparing for the last battle, with a titanic abomination carved from the ectoplasm of an endless stream of tortured wraiths, raging with the fire of innumerable burning suns. The truth is marginally less terrifying, but no less final, and you await your reckoning with bated breath.

 

Beside you sits your partner in crime, the six-year old John Egbert (now John Egbert-Sleuth, Sleuth Junior, and occasionally a fair few other names besides, most of them condescending little pet names that he hates and you love). Together, in your shared leisure time, you have fought through dungeon after dungeon, solved puzzle after puzzle, and defeated foe after foe, solely to reach this point - it’s been a long run, but you’re proud. You’ve accomplished the impossible, as a team, and once you’re done with your celebratory “shit’s gotten real” team pose, you’ll finish things for good.

 

The overwrought metaphor your mind conjures is surprisingly accurate. You two have spent the last year playing “Problem Sleuth” together, overcoming challenges surprisingly similar to those you faced during your notorious first case, and now you’re just getting ready to take on the Mobster Kingpin himself. You haven’t told John too much about the actual events (does he need to know it took you six months to finally finish the Kingpin off?) of the case, but he knows enough to know that this final incarnation of the legendary gangster lord is frighteningly accurate, and that you’ll need to put your heads together to figure out how to beat it.

 

The entire final battle is condensed, thankfully, so you stand aboard the deck of your ship, the Chicago Overcoat, cyber-PI and AD behind you, awaiting the tyrant’s arrival. John is tense with anticipation, a look of quiet contemplation warring with desperate excitement for his face’s real estate, and you’re a little wired up yourself. Playing this game’s brought so many of your memories back to the forefront of your mind, and this battle is no different - you know that you’ll need to use Sepulchritude to bring the Demonhead down for good, and you’ve made sure to grind your way to a full Lazy Susan of Endowment. Each character’s Suckle Receptacle (who the fuck came up with these crazy names, you wonder) is full to bursting, and you’re ready to go in there and bring down the Big Bad together. The Tectrixcalibur is sharp, your pot of Ink of Squid Pro Quo is brimming with viscous black sludge, and you’ve both planned out the perfect strategy. It’ll be a cinch.

 

Just as the Mobster Kingpin’s final long-winded monologue is winding down to completion, the phone beside you rings. John moves to pause the game, but you wave your hand, trying to signal to him that it’s okay for him to carry on, hoping he gets the message. It seems to make sense, because he focuses on the screen and starts rapidly tapping buttons, so you pull the receiver up to your ear, making sure to turn the volume down on the TV. The music is great, something called “Valhalla”, but you don’t want it in your ears when you’re trying to uphold a conversation.

 

It’s HD. She’s calling to ask you what you and John want for dinner tonight, and your stomach rumbles in response, which garners a giggle from her end of the line. John’s too intent on the screen to notice you asking him any questions, but you already know what he likes, so you suggest some good old fashioned pizza. As long as you don’t get pastries, anything is fine. She assents and hangs up, leaving you to turn your attention back to the game, where John already has the Kingpin on the ropes, and you raise your fist in triumph as he slams the “confirmation” button one final time, throwing down a beautifully-animated Final Flip Out. You know what’s coming next, and it’s a haunting memory that stays with you every night, that final, magnificent explosion of charisma that had nearly annihilated the entirety of existence, but the final cutscene brings back so many memories that you can’t help but watch. Next to you, John’s eyes are transfixed on the screen as he leans back, satisfied; the ending only takes ten minutes, but it’s worth the effort you two have put in, especially because it makes you harken back to the real thing.

 

The reason it’s so accurate is because it’s AD’s baby, a joint venture between himself and PI’s little company that’s been made mostly so you guys can live your experiences over and over again. It isn’t good, clinging so tightly to the past, but you’re all near-mythical heroes, so a little nostalgia every now and then is fine. You pull John into an embrace as you watch the final scene, a shot of your little group posing as a team overlaid with a funky jazz melody, and when it finally fades away, replaced with a scrolling marquee that just says ‘The End, Thank You For Playing’, you highfive the kid. It’s the result of your collective efforts, and you certainly don’t regret it - it’s helped to bring you together. That’s what counts, in your mind.

 

As you put John to bed moments later, your mind replays the last year, and you wonder if you’ve done enough, done right by the kid. You certainly hope so.

 

*

 

The first month had been particularly nightmarish; not due to any fault on yours or John’s part, but because of the tension in the house between yourself and HD as you waited for the verdict to come through on whether you could raise a kid. You hoped that things would be alright, but the city government had always been in SCorp’s pocket and you doubted this would be any different. Hope was your only ally. HD was convinced it would work, and your arguments meant that John had to grieve stuck between two impossibly stubborn, mule-headed idiots, neither of whom knew quite how to deal with someone who’d just lost their parents.

 

The funeral for Mr. Egbert, a fairly private affair that was as extravagant a memorial as you could afford, was a somber affair indeed. Lalonde had been there, though you hadn’t invited her, and she’d been a complete wreck the entire time. Tearful broads weren’t generally your domain anymore, though you’d had a lot of experience with traitorous dames, and this one was the teariest (and the most traitorous, that bitch) you’d ever met. How she thought she had the right to cry for the man whose death she was responsible for, you’d never know, but the audacity...the gall! It made you want to puke until you died, just so you could haunt her.

 

Her daughter wasn’t with her, though, and that said enough for you. There had to be a limit to how much suffering you wished on one person, and she’d definitely already hit it by now, and come out with nothing on the other side.

 

Lord Harley was there, though you only spared a moment for him, enough to let him greet John. He offered to take him off your hands, said John deserved to grow up with family, but you refused - Harley was SCorp, and regardless of whether he was really as morally-upstanding a man as people made him out to be, you refused to trust another one from that company. Ever. His granddaughter was a little angel, though, despite her grim future, and the way she held John’s hand as he cried, watching his father’s coffin lowered into a deep, dark pit, told you enough there too, if your instincts were still sharp: even if she became the most powerful Company Executive in the world, even if she married Lord English, she’d still put him first, like a brother. The steadfast loyalty made you want to weep.

 

The Striders had even seen fit to attend. The youngest, a kid barely older than John, sat next to the boy, and you knew they were best friends. You remembered him, too, the blond brat who’d chased after you when you’d left the nursery, but now all he did was sit by his friend in silence, a font of strength even at five years old. They all were, those kids, even the few trolls who sat a row behind, some of whom watched John like hawks; dad Egbert had taken the time to make a lot of friends of all kinds, and many had turned up. He’d been a saint, after all, you’d discovered, running charities and doing volunteer work even as he mediated from the inside of the Company - it just made you angrier, more furious than you’d been in a long time, that one of the city’s only bright spots had been taken away so young.

 

When you snapped out of your tangent, you looked over the other two Striders. You’d have to talk to them later. The girl, the eldest of them, towered over most of the other people in the aisle at nearly six foot, but she was easily the most gorgeous human woman you’d ever laid eyes on (even beautiful, dainty Lalonde couldn’t hold a candle to her), slim, perfectly toned, legs all the way up. Her hair was cut short in a golden bob that hung lopsidedly around her face, making her look decidedly dangerous, but her implacable expression caught your eye most - fierce red eyes glued firmly on the casket, hands clenched tightly around both of her brothers’. She looked barely older than seventeen, and it worried you that someone could be so hard yet so young.

 

The other Strider, conversely, looked far older than he was, as the younger brother John had told you about. Though there were only a few minutes between him and his sister, the weight of the world rested just behind his eyes, wise and ancient beyond his years. Interestingly enough, that sagaciousness was tempered by the aloof, standoffish arrogance in his expression, though you weren’t sure how much of that was real and how much was manufactured to hide any sadness he might have been feeling. One hand was held firmly in his sister’s, trembling a little, and the other grasped a pair of pointy black shades that he seemed aching to put back on; you noted that for later, just in case. People who hid usually had something to hide, after all. He was nearly six foot four, slender, muscular, coiled like a tiger, and you felt a little wary at that; what did he have to be afraid of at a funeral? Was that just his natural look? It was definitely an intriguing one - he was inarguably handsome, just like his sister. He appeared somewhat less masculine than Egbert, though with the age difference, you weren’t surprised.

 

Dotted amidst the small, tightly-packed crowd were pairs of horns here and there - some of the troll wrigglers, fidgeting and murmuring like children (shockingly enough), were being scolded by adult trolls, a rare occurrence indeed. Two you recognised - the infamous pirate Spinneret Mindfang, whom you’d tussled with once or twice before, accompanied by a lusus that resembled a giant spider, and a little troll girl that looked suspiciously similar to the Marquise; next to her, a man (Dualscar, you knew him too well) was focusing his attention on the bawling sea-troll that had latched onto a disinterested seahorse lusus. How they knew Egbert, you’d have to look into, but one thing was for certain: John didn’t seem too fussed about them.

 

In fact, you pondered as you stood by him as he dropped a bouquet of flowers into his father’s grave, still in silent tears, it almost felt as though he knew everybody there. Most of them seemed genuinely saddened or distressed, and you felt the shock of your life when, after speeches from Lalonde and Harley, the elder Strider boy stood up and sang (sang, your mind screamed, sang) a magnificent, heartfelt elegy for the fallen hero. Then, after more speeches (a troll you didn’t recognise wearing a titanic robo-suit, a carapace-person you knew as the city’s mayor-elect, and Doc Scratch, no less) and a few last words from the preacher, the ceremony was concluded; you don’t remember much of the rest. It was a blur, a stifling roar of sobs and condolences, and then it was just you and John, standing alone by Mr. Egbert’s gravestone as the heavens opened and rain began to fall. You could still hear HD’s voice a few metres away, thanking people for attending despite not knowing them, but your attention was focused on the human boy in front of you, kneeling at his father’s grave, alone and full of immeasurable sorrow.

 

You stayed there for a while, together, and for a time, there was nothing but silence. You couldn’t say anything, too weak to put voice to your concerns, but you watched the emotions that played across the boy’s face - sadness, fear, despair, loneliness, anger - and you wished that he wasn’t so young. If he was older, he would have learned all the lessons he needed to survive losing his father, but as it stood, he barely knew how to do much of anything, at four years old, going on five - an open book, ripe for the reading, wearing its heart on its sleeve. A metaphor almost as tortured as its subject.

 

After a few more minutes passed in silence, you couldn’t help yourself any longer. Picking John up was simple enough, and you carried him down the hill in your arms, a shivering ball of grief wrapped up in the awkward grip of a coward. By the time the rain really started in earnest, you’d made it to shelter, HD’s umbrella covering the three of you as you slowly made your way towards the church, where a small group of people waited, milling about anxiously (or so it appeared).

 

When the three of you reached them, they drew apart. The Striders, Harley and his granddaughter, Lalonde by her lonesome...the little family Egbert had told you about. The little family SCorp had torn apart. Momentarily you wondered why these four children all had such strange and mysterious destinies, but you committed that to the back of your mind for later examination when the Strider girl pulled John out of your arms, into what you knew was probably a very difficult cuddle.

 

He moved around slightly in her grasp, a tiny little mass in her frail yet steely grip, and she sighed, not knowing what to do besides resting his head on her shoulder. It made you feel like an outsider, intruding on what was so obviously a family, but you chose not to linger on it too long. Harley looked like he needed your attention, so you gave it to him, as hastily as you could.

 

He quizzed you on a few things - your home, your family situation, your income, your personality, your history - before he was satisfied. They’d all heard of you, that much was obvious, and each was on their guard (nervous in the presence of your legendary martial prowess, probably, and your tangible charisma), but the interrogation didn’t last too long - eventually they were satisfied, the middle Strider (who’d somehow come into possession of the child) reluctantly relinquishing John to you as they filed noiselessly away.

 

Two hours later, you had driven your makeshift family home, taking the time out to tuck John in as HD settled down on the couch, mug of scalding black coffee in one hand, pen in the other, leaning over what looked a lot like more forms. You slumped down into the seat next to her, checking the messages on your phone, and she pecked you on the cheek as she set her drink down on the table, sending warmth through you.

 

The blinking light on your phone meant that you had a message - and as you listened to it, ringing the death knell on your old life, you smiled at HD.

 

John was yours now: time to make good on it.

 

*

 

Six months later (seven months after you’d met the kid) and despite the fact that he still hadn’t quite recovered, and probably never would, he’d started going back to his nursery, giving you and HD time to really rekindle your relationship. You’d both planned your wedding ceremony for two months down the line, during your shared holiday season, and the guest list, though small, was full of people you both loved dearly. Some of them you’d met through John, others you’d known otherwise, but one thing was certain: they were all important. With AD and PI as your duo of best men, NB as the maid of honour, the Demimonde Goddess as the matron, and John and his friend Jade as the ring-bearers. It’s all a very romantic, very beautiful, and sickly sweet, and though the idea’s become a great deal more palatable to you lately, you’re still not sure if you’re ready. AD says it’s the jitters, that everyone has them, and PI thinks it’s stupid that you don’t want to when everyone else sees how obviously in love you two are, but it’s not quite enough to calm you down. Nothing really is, not so close to the big day.

 

But John’s nursery is doing fine. He’s five years old now, and you’ve recently started playing through a game called “Problem Sleuth”, designed by the company AD and PI run, that chronicles your adventures together. That fellow Hussie is working on it too, which isn’t too surprising – you’ve become fairly good friends since the case in which you first met, and it’s no stretch to say that he enjoys the work. John’s going to start school very soon, now that you’ve finally decided which school he should attend, and he’s treating you and HD like family. It’s touching. You’re grateful that things are moving along so smoothly right now, and you hope it’ll stay the same for a while yet.

 

You’ve been going through Mr. Egbert’s sylladex, making certain that it’s all cleared and ready for your use (Egbert’s will bequeathed it to John in the event of anything happening to him, and you’re waiting for him to age at least three or four years before you give him something so confusing and valuable), and you’ve come across the message Egbert left for John. The card is still functional, still useful, and you stow it in your personal inventory - it’s John’s, yeah, but it’s also the last memento of his father’s, and you’re not sure giving it to him when he’s too young to really understand it is a good idea, though with the way he behaves, you wonder sometimes if he’s more mature than you are.

 

(It’ll be a long time before you remember to pass on that card, but you don’t know that yet. All you know is, you have to keep it safe.)

 

*

 

It’s the first day of the first year of Pisces, and you’re excited. It’s John’s first day of school, and your wedding is in five days, and life is moving at a faster pace than it has in a long time, and you’re happy about that. John’s recovery is proceeding smoothly, no doubt helped by the fact that he’s been exposed to so much contact over the past nine months, and he’s ecstatic, very nearly bubbling over with mirth at the prospect of going to the same school all his friends are going to. Little Jade and Dave will be there, and so will his troll friends (you’ve finally learned their names, after a lot of effort: Vriska, Eridan, and Equius); it’s a prestigious school, very expensive, but you’d set up a trust fund for John and started looking into your savings in order to fund it, and it turned out that in one bank account you’d had accruing interest for nearly ten years, you’ve got something like four-hundred-and-seventy-trillion boonbucks. Two others have a third of that each. All-in-all, you have enough money, from the Kingpin’s reserves that you’ve raided and all the wealth you’ve acquired elsewhere, to buy a pretty hefty share of SCorp’s stock from underneath Lord English’s feet. If you, HD, AD, PI and NB combined all the cash you have, you could buy the entire Company out in a hostile takeover. It wouldn’t go over well, could lead to outright warfare on the City streets, but hey, it’d be quite neat to own the universe. You’ve already saved it once, it owes you that much, you’re sure.

 

The point is, you’ve done well, getting this far. You hope the rest of the journey is as easy.

 

*

 

You’ve just returned from your two-week honeymoon.

 

It’s jumping the gun a little bit to say that it was the best holiday you have ever and will ever have, but you feel like it has to be said. The weather had been fantastic, bright and hot as a desert, the food had been unimaginably tasty and cheap, the people had been friendlier than pretty much anyone in Midnight City ever seemed to be, and you’d spent the entire time together, drinking, dancing, swimming, and doing all those things you’d wanted to do when you’d finally pledged your vows and all that. After the nerves, the anxiety, the nausea of the pre-marriage ordeal, now that the weight of the future has been lifted off your shoulders, you can’t help but feel relieved - it’s definitely a good feeling. HD is in a great mood herself, as the two of you pick John up from his own little holiday with the Striders, and you’re both relaxed as you sip deliciously black coffee in their front room.

 

You stop to chat with the elder Strider girl, Roma, on your way out of their apartment. She tells you that taking care of John has been a dream, that he’s far easier to deal with than her brothers, and that she’d be happy to do it again whenever. John is almost hesitant to part with her, and just from the way his great big puppy eyes light up whenever he looks at her, you can tell he adores her, idolises her. You’re not surprised, you know who she is and what she’s capable of, but you’re also a bit jealous. You honestly hoped you’d be the only person John ever looked at quite like that, with so much blatant hero-worship.

 

As you step out of the door after HD and John go skipping towards the car, Strider grabs your sleeve, leaning in to put her mouth right up against your ear. You can feel her breath on your face, and it’s certainly a nice feeling, but you’re married, so you quickly try to pull away. She doesn’t let go.

 

She tells you that her brother’s been away for a couple of days, and she’s worried. He can often disappear for a few days, weeks at a time, but she always knows where he is, how long he’ll be gone, and how to find him, and this time she doesn’t. The thought that he might be missing, hurt, or worse, is one that terrifies her, and you understand, prying her hand off your arm as you draw away, a proud look in your eyes. You tell her that you’ll keep an eye out, see if you can find any traces of him, but not to hold her breath. Kids can disappear. She doesn’t seem happy with that answer, but she accepts it gracefully, levering the door closed behind you. The sound of a muffled sigh escapes from the other side of the door, and you’re certain she’s crouched against the wall, probably with her head in her hands, but you can’t do much besides what you’ve already promised.

 

As you return to your car, telling HD what you’ve heard, her face scrunches into an expression of dismay, and she starts the car, pulling out of the driveway. You lean back into your seat and ponder.

 

*

 

It’s three months until the end of Pisces, and you’re just beginning to make arrangements for the end-of-year holidays. John wants to go to a mountain resort and ski, and you think that might be nice, though HD gets particularly cranky in the cold; you think she could stand to be moody, though, with the way her face has been permanently stuck in an expression of joy since you got back from your honeymoon. You know it’s silly of you, but you want to see her angry, because it’s different, and you like different. Certainly the idea of angry...no. You choose not to go down that route, despite how appealing your mind makes it out to be.

 

You’re out buying presents for John when you meet up with Lalonde. She hasn’t improved at all, and though you know she’s too wealthy and popular to ever live a life of anything but fabulous stardom, she’s still an absolute wreck. With her are two men you don’t recognise, and one you do - the older Strider boy, dressed up in leather jacket, tight-fitting jeans, those sunglasses of his, and a red, thick, woollen scarf that smothers his mouth and every inch of his neck. He’s still a handsome guy, you realise, and he easily outdoes the other two, both of them overwrought and plain by comparison.

 

The two in question seem to be following her around like an entourage, hanging off her every action, but it does her no good, like she’s trying to play a role but can’t get into it at all. Her overacting, the slight wrinkling of her forehead with every movement, the way her eyes glisten as though every second is a battle against tears, there’s no way she hasn’t already been defeated by life. The only one who seems to appreciate what she’s going through, isn’t following her like a lovesick animal, is Strider, still aloof and reserved in his own ultra-cool way, and people across the store, carapaces, humans and trolls, are all stopping to get an eyeful. A couple of trolls giggle at him, a pair (boy and girl) in full winter garb, themselves quite pretty, and he shoots them a look, expressionless and emotionless. They can’t help but swoon.

 

You can tell he’s too cool for anyone in Midnight City. The Striders generally seem to be. Perhaps he should get an award for “Most Desirable Man”.

 

You walk up to them, and they seem to notice you. The two boys, both of them completely insignificant, drab spots in the radiance of Lalonde and Strider, melt away into the background, made sullen by your presence.

 

(Nearby, the two trolls, amongst others, switch their attention to you. They’re a bit spooked by your presence, staring at you with even more adulation than they did Strider and Lalonde, but then, by now you’re used to being stared at. It’s always been very difficult, being the most charismatic being ever to draw breath. When the Strider girl had told you that you were easily the most attractive person in the City, maybe even in the world, you’d politely passed it off as nothing. You were a carapace-person, after all, and you knew humans didn’t go in for that sort of thing.

 

Later, when she tried to seduce you, knowing you were already married, you blamed your fantastic pulchritude for making you so incredibly charismatic. If anybody else had been privy to your thoughts, they would have screamed at you - you’re a very modest, humble person, and others tend to hate you for your benevolence.)

 

Lalonde visibly perks up at the sight of you. You’re an anchor for these people, they’ve come to trust you as most people do, and she seems happy to see someone who won’t kiss the ground she walks on. Next to her, Strider is still distant and cold, nose slightly upturned at you; he’s simply too cool to give a shit. You wish the kid had less of a stick up his ass sometimes.

 

The moment you’re close enough to touch, she throws herself at you, feather boa and all, moaning about how she misses her daughter, regretting everything she’s caused, wanting everything to be alright again. You placate her as much as you can (by now the crowds have all dispersed; there’s only so much you can accomplish just looking at a person, and when you want to, you blend right into a crowd, just like a shadow), but you’re here for Strider now, and you make sure he knows that.

 

He doesn’t even bother replying. One of his eyebrows rises a little, as though to give the impression that he’s inquisitive yet unconcerned, and before you can respond, he disappears. He’s swift as all hell, that kid, flash-stepping faster than you can blink, and you just know he’s gone. At least you can tell his sister you’ve seen him.

 

Lalonde doesn’t know why he was there, only that she’d met him quite by chance in the gift aisle, where he was shopping for toys, probably for his little brother. You make a note of it, moving to dismiss Lalonde, but she dogs you, still yakking about something or the other. She’s taller than you, nearly as tall as Roma, and you’re a bit jealous of that height advantage, but you deal with it, going about your shopping while she follows you around.

 

By the time you’re finished, she has nothing more to say, can’t help but sag in defeat. She knows you know, that you won’t forgive her, but she just wants to see John again. She never meant to hurt him, and he’s like a son to her.

 

You finally give her the time of day, agreeing to let her talk to the boy at some point. She brightens again and waves, moving to go back to her own shopping, and you watch her as she walks away.

 

You wonder if you’ve done the right thing.

 

*

 

It’s three days since you returned from your holiday up in the mountains, where John learned to ski like a professional and you learned to fall on your face like an idiot while your wife laughs at you with her new friends, and it’s the night before what many humans call Christmas. The group of carapace-people you consider yourself part of call it Prospitariakhan, and the trolls have some bizarrely long and grotesque name for it that includes several references to sacrifice, suffering and self-loathing, but you don’t worry about that, because the trolls that John has befriended within school and without don’t really like celebrating troll holidays anyway. They’re part of a progressive, liberal troll movement that espouses parental responsibility, autonomous reproduction, personal liberty, community and kindness; they’re basically not trolls at all, besides the obvious biological aspects, and they’re mostly wealthier, happier and more common than the traditional trolls nowadays. In fact, traditional trolls are dying out, most choosing to emulate humans; it’s a better lifestyle, you know that for a fact, considering the humans learned it from your people.

 

The little gathering HD has set up officially “jumpin'”. AD and PI are there, AD with his family, PI with a cute little number he says he met a few days ago on a case, who’s quaking under the evil eye NB is shooting her (they’d been together a while back, but it hadn’t really worked out, what with PI’s disconcerting ogling of other women). Lalonde is there, and she’s playing with John, who is eerily happy to see her, like she’s his mother or something; you chalk that one up to Mr. Egbert and leave it at that. Her daughter is conspicuously absent, another SCorp promise not delivered. Roma and Dave Strider are both there, fighting for the last piece of chocolate cake; they’re both laughing, happy, letting their guard down, because their elder brother is there with them. Roma had been elated when you’d told her you’d seen him, and he’d turned up again soon afterward; now they were together as a family again, at least for a while, and even the insufferable prick of a cooldude that was the elder Strider boy had relaxed to enjoy a party with his kid brother - himself worryingly developing more and more of the typical Strider “charm”, despite his youthful adorableness.

 

Harley's brought his dog, that devilbeast Becquerel, with him, and they’re playing with Jade in a corner. You’re happy to see that they’re all well. Jade is getting harassed by a little boy troll, who you’ve learned is one of John’s best friends, an angry boy called Karkat Vantas; he doesn’t have a dad, unfortunately, but his lusus, a gigantic crab, is playfully pinching food from HD’s plate in the corner. She seems to be enjoying the attention. The boy, who had hit it off with John thanks to an incident that led to him awkwardly apologising to your kid (your kid? Your kid, yeah) a few months ago for making him cry, is the way he is because his dad was the pioneer, the forebear, of the progressive moment most other trolls, even the highbloods, practice now. He has human blood, which is the problem, apparently, but it doesn’t really matter to you, because he’s got a fiery personality, and he’s fiercely protective of your boy, which makes you happy. Apparently he’s only two and a half sweeps old, in the troll calendar. It’s fitting that he behave like a two-and-a-half year old, then, you muse, amused, as you help yourself to another serving of cake. Even John is enjoying the cake, which makes you happy. He’s a sweet kid, and he’s recovered well. You’re very glad.

 

The other trolls are there too, with their parents and lusii. You’ve gone to the effort of learning their names: the first three you’ve known for a while, and they visit regularly, Eridan, Equius and Vriska. The others are new, but they come around often, and apparently there’s a big circle of friends forming around them: Feferi, Nepeta, and Tavros. Though they’re a bit too young for quadrants in your academic opinion, apparently myriad conciliatory relationships are sparking between them and the kids, Vriska subconsciously chasing after John for a moirail even as Equius and Nepeta pacify each other in a way that some of the oldest, wisest trolls you’ve known simply could not. It’s a beautiful thing, that disease called friendship, and as you discuss it with Summoner, you come to respect trolls a little more. They make your kid happy, after all.

 

When Karkat gets into a fight with Dave over which of them gets to dance with Jade, you pull them apart, noting that humans are probably just as bad.

 

*

 

It’s Prospitariakhan - no, wait, it’s Christmas - and you’re sat around the tree with John, HD, AD and his family, PI and NB (who’ve hooked up, again, right back to the bickering), little Karkat and his lusus, Vriska, her mother and her lusus, Harley and Jade, and the three Striders. The others have all left, presumably to go and spend time with their own little families elsewhere.

 

(You don’t know it yet, but this is the last time you’ll see the elder Strider boy for a long time, and John won’t forget it for the rest of his life.)

 

The kids are all opening presents, and you have one arm slung around HD’s shoulder as she leans into you, watching them all react with surprise and glee. She seems to have loved her present - a Tectrix of the Arbitor that you’ve stored for years, that’s always reminded you of the Weasel King - and you certainly love yours, a little necklace she and John have somehow crafted themselves. It’s made of pure grist, and the locket attached to it contains a picture of the three of you together. Nothing could possibly have made you happier, except knowing that everyone else is happy too.

 

They are. AD’s found his family lots of presents that they’re tearing into with reckless abandon, while PI and NB swap rings. Again. It’s all very romantic, though you know it’ll come crashing down soon, probably by the beginning of Pisces, and that’s a very generous estimate. Dave’s found a brand new little gizmo, a phone that’ll let him contact people whenever he wants, for free, and does a ton of other things besides, as well as a set of turntables. Jade’s been given several guns, as well as several laptops and a cookalizer - it’s mildly distressing to see a young girl handling weapons you wouldn’t trust most full-grown adults with, but you let it slide as long as she promises not to use them in your house. Harley’s guffawing at the same time, a deep, reverberating laugh that you’ve come to associate solely with him.

 

Vriska is jumping up and down, holding tightly onto a little cueball and a set of costumes, as well as a game disc, and you realise that with the powers her mother has, and the gifts she’s been given, she’s probably going to be a big deal some day. Hopefully after you’re gone. The Marquise shoots you a look that simply screams possession and arrogance, and you just know that somehow, this’ll end up affecting John more than it affects you. Hopefully she won’t be too violent with him if her attentions ever do turn concupiscent.

 

Karkat is the only one who isn’t opening his presents. He’s only got one, a sickle and coding book from his lusus, but it seems to be enough to make him happy - he’s playing with the sickle, thankfully with the safety setting on, jumping around and making silly noises as John darts around behind him with his brand new Warhammer of Zillyhoo.

 

You don’t question the urge to give the boy the hammer. It’s a silly thing to do, handing over an all-powerful legendary weapon to a child, but it’s just a toy among the masses of other gifts you’ve gotten him (a little suit that alters itself to fit its wearer, a mountain of Fruit Gushers even though he instinctively despises Crocker goods, another hammer that has time-controlling powers called Fear No Anvil, and even more trivial things that he’ll probably love).

 

When everyone’s sat down, relaxing, you stand up, making sure to turn on your swagger (as the punks you seem to be dealing with a great deal lately ever so eloquently put it). All eyes dart to you, and you open up your sylladex to a rousing chorus of interested noises. It’s all very picturesque, you note, a mosaic of diversity and multi-culturalism, and you take a moment to think of your mural as the dramatic tension mounts.

 

Karkat is the first to react, breaking his veneer of indifference with a snarl, and his lusus taps him lightly on the back of the head, scolding as best he can. Karkat rubs the sore spot, irritated but pacified, and you grin as you kneel in front of the boy. He’s certainly curious now, nearly three sweeps old and poking at you for whatever it is you’re holding.

 

All eyes are still on you as you summon a box from your sylladex. They remain on you as you undo the bow on top of the box, slowly unwrapping the paper that covers it, pulling apart its folds, tearing it apart at the seams. You revel in the electric atmosphere, knowing that no one can wait any longer.

 

When the deed is done, and the box is unwrapped, it contains another, smaller box. Karkat is well and truly livid now, but behind you, the others are in hysterics, especially John, who is fervently congratulating you on filling your Prankster’s Gambit. You’re a little chuffed at that (the fact that you couldn’t beat a five-year-old at practical japery was more than a little humiliating), and you open this one quickly, summoning its contents from inside.

 

You hand them to Karkat, and he is in awe. You know that his family is very poor, but you’ve offered to let them live in one of your properties, and his lusus has repeatedly declined; he’s prepared to do whatever to make sure Karkat is safe, but he won’t let the boy live without dignity, without pride, so you settle with just having him over whenever possible. You like the kid. He’s feisty.

 

The box contains a strife specibus and a sylladex. Both are still highly experimental technology, exorbitantly expensive, but you’re not worried; once they’ve bonded to an individual, they are inseparable from said individual, and they’re immensely useful, you’ve come to realise. You let Karkat make his choices - he settles on Sicklekind and an encryption modus, though you cannot understand his choice of something so counter-intuitive as the latter - and you pat him on the head, moving onto Vriska. He grumbles under his breath, and you can tell that though he hopes it seems dissatisfied, it’s actually immensely grateful. That’s Karkat, you surmised long ago, still smiling.

 

Vriska, similarly, chooses Dicekind to go with her mother’s Fluorite Octet, and the Eight-Ball modus, which is surprisingly simple, considering; you applaud her foresight. It’s obvious she’s not stupid enough to be tricked by style over substance.

 

Jade takes a Game Set modus and a Riflekind specibus, awed into silence by the nature of the things; Dave snatches the Hash Map modus and a Bladekind specibus, allocating them as quickly as possible, though his clumsy mishandling of the Bladekind specibus breaks it, turning it into 1/2Bladekind, and he reacts by cursing, which makes his sister hit him on the back of the head. You glance back at Karkat, who is really tearing into the air with his sickle now, empowered by the specibus as he is.

 

Finally, you hand John his loot, both his father’s Wallet modus sylladex, as well as a Modus Control Deck, an Array modus, a Queue modus, and a Stack modus. You’d decided to let him play around and figure out how to work all his gear himself, though you would teach him as much as you knew, little that that was. Everything had led up to this moment.

 

You take a second to equip your own infinite-space Choice modus and Allkind strife specibus. It’s been a challenge, getting a hold of equipment that fits your legendary stature, but you have it now, and you’ve prepared the kids for their futures; all you can do now is carry on.

 

The world is your oyster, you think, as you sit with the adults, watching the kids while the rest of the day away.

 

*

 

Your mind suddenly snaps back to John, lying in front of you, still sleeping, and you know you’ve done the right thing. He’s had a good New Year’s Day with his friends, you hope, and he has the rest of his life ahead of him.

 

That much you know. You’re going to do your best to make it go right.


	5. In Which The Starting Ends And The Ending Starts

The next few years of your life pass without much in the way of incident, though occasionally things do get stirred up a little. John catches the chicken pox at eight (human diseases are so different to the ones you're used to dealing with – they don't have to deal with carapace rot, for one, and that's probably the biggest blessing the other species have going for them), his first crush at eleven (a human actress by the name of Liv Tyler, starring in a film called Armageddon that you refuse to watch out of Willis-hating principle), the search for a good secondary school soon afterwards. You're still working, but the cases are pretty much blips on your radar now. They don't matter in the face of making sure your family is well cared for, and frankly, you're more focused on the career in politics you want to take up in the future, when everything is set, John is grown up and off your hands, and you finally figure out how to start changing the city.

 

HD's been offered a position as an executive within SCorp. Not a Company Executive, though; they're born, not made, and HD doesn't have the right genes for it, or so she's been told. But she'll be doing a similar job to the one that killed Egbert and you wonder if, maybe, this is your ticket, a supply line of SCorp secrets that'll give you the edge if you ever need it. She says it's an honour to be considered, but she intends to turn the position down, to protect herself and her family. You hope you can convince her otherwise.

 

In the middle of the sixth calendar year of Pisces, John starts at his new school. It's the classiest joint in the city, eligible by invitation only, and though you can easily afford to buy the damn place out, you're more proud that John's won a scholarship there for his work in the culinary practices. You know he wants to code, work with mechanics, and he's good at that, definitely could have a future in working with electronics, but he's also damn sharp in the realm of observation and, to this day, you haven't eaten food better than his. They say his father was a legend in the underground chef's circles, heir to the Crocker fortune, and you can just feel it, the spark of talent, in every morsel John prepares. HD hasn't cooked since he was tall enough to work the oven.

 

What impresses you most, though, the thing you're most proud of, is that he's dead-set on working with you as soon as he can. He wants to make you proud, and he wants to make his dad in heaven proud too, cleaning up the city streets, so you've started teaching him everything you know, preparing him for the gruelling, soul-destroying work that is the detective's trade. It's not enough – experience is what counts – but he's bright, enthusiastic, caring, and committed, so you give him the benefit of the doubt. You can wait until he's older.

 

You'd thought he'd be lonely at his new school, but many of his friends have managed to get in too. Of course Jade is there, she's a scientific prodigy with as much skill at marksmanship as you have, and her grandfather is Harley himself – there's no doubt she'd end up at the most prominent institution imaginable. She's the best of the best, one of the city's finest minds even at the tender age of eleven, and considering her future, she needs all the training she can get. Dave is there because his siblings (and you) have pulled all the strings they could, called in every favour they had, and pushed Dave to the limit, just to get the invitation and the funding; he's a musician, through and through, but he's limitlessly talented, and a master wordsmith to boot. It's almost like these three were somehow born with superior genetics, but the only reason they all want to go is because they don't want to be separated, and the warmth of all those great feelings nearly burns you up inside.

 

The only trolls that have managed to earn acceptance into the school, as far as you know, are Eridan, Equius and Vriska. You would curse the system for favouring highbloods over lowbloods, but truth be told, you're fairly certain the school is run by carapace-people, and therefore operates under a strict policy of tolerance and equality; you also haven't had opportunity to speak to the parents of the other troll children at the school in quite a while. You hope your recommendation for Karkat carried some weight, at least. The boy deserves the chance to shine, and he's definitely just as appropriate a choice for a scholarship as John is, if not much more so.

 

You are certain things are going to get hectic very soon. You hope you're prepared.

 

*

 

By the time John is fourteen, during the ninth calendar year of Pisces, you meet his first girlfriend. Her name is Feferi Peixes (it's a cute name for a cute girl, you think), and she's the heir to the troll empire that spans nearly the length and breadth of the planet you live on, as well as much of space. You don't think you'll be meeting her lusus any time soon, but the girl herself is very agreeable.

 

You watch them for a while – not while they're doing anything romantic, you feel inclined to specify in your thoughts – and you're almost saddened by how good they look together.

 

They're very similar. Bright, bubbly, kind, gentle, and you can tell just by the way they laugh and joke as they sit in front of a screen, playing video games, that they'd be better as friends than as a couple. You haven't seen John open up to anyone quite like that besides the people he's known for a long time, and she's radiant as she enjoys his attention, somehow managing to play the game better than your son with just one hand as she uses the other one to write something down on a piece of paper. You can't quite read what she's writing, but the paper has some equations written on it in fairly large letters, so you assume it's homework. When John notices and comes to the same realisation, he panics, but she simply laughs, soothing him with a couple of platitudes and a firm reassurance that it's not homework he needs to do.

 

They spend the rest of the evening talking, playing, cooking, and doing all the things best friends do. It's not a romantic relationship at all, you're certain of that, but you're also fairly certain they are too, and it's a good excuse to enjoy each other's company alone. Begrudgingly you respect their wishes when John notices you in a doorway and shoos you out.

 

When they break up a few weeks later, you're not surprised. You're not even surprised when Karkat (the only troll in John's class besides Feferi, interestingly enough) immediately tries to move in on John, and the kid reluctantly agrees to one date.

 

Much as he denies it, you've always suspected he might be a little bit gay.

 

*

 

John's sweet sixteenth, fairly late in the eleventh year of Pisces, is an event of fantastic proportions. Sixteen years is a long time, and he's legally old enough to do many of the things that are considered adult in modern society – he doesn't know what a lot of them are (frankly, he's far too innocent for you to ruin him with the debauchery of maturity), but the first thing he does is go out and start learning to drive. You don't tell him that he doesn't need to bother, you'll find him a proper chauffeur if need be, but he's adamant that he be able to, and it is a fairly important life skill, so you let it slide.

 

(What you do not, shall not, will never accept, is the discovery you make less than a year later, when you find his motorcycle license and a gigantic beast of a bike hidden in a rented garage a block south from your home. You know he's already got a license for a normal car, but that's too far. Motorcycles are killers and you refuse to let your son drive one.

 

Of course, you are a soft touch, and naturally you change your mind when he takes you out for a ride. Not because it's any less dangerous than you expected, or because he's a particularly good rider, though he is, but because the thrill of it makes you both feel alive, adrenaline rushing through your veins as your pulse pounds like a jackhammer in the back of your skull, and lights him up like a Prospitariakhan Flamepillar. You'll worry, so much it'll give you health problems, but you worry constantly anyway, so nothing'll really change. The joys of being a parent.)

 

He doesn't want to do anything too big, so you decide to keep the guest list for the little shindig you put together down to something like fifty people, many of whom are hangers-on, and all of which love John. Like moths to an inferno.

 

It's a surprise, though, so when Jade and Dave catch John at the door and pull him into a room full of people, chanting his name as their screams of congratulations are drowned out by the roar of clapping and whistling, he looks less like a deer caught in headlights and more like a man about to suffer ten heart attacks in quick succession.

  
The evening itself is about as eventful as you'd expect. John is the centre of attention the entire time, dogged by an entourage that only has two constants, Jade and Dave, shuffling every few moments as people try to grab the precocious birthday boy's eye. The Harley grandfather and the Strider girl stay with you for much of the evening, but the other Strider boy, the one you've all taken to calling simply Bro, is missing.

 

He's been missing for a long time now. No one expects to find him anywhere, but that's not important to you right now. Not as important, anyway, though it is high on your list of priority cases. You turn your attention back to the party.

 

Karkat greets John with a gruff handshake, followed by an awkward hug – they hadn't lasted very long, and John had assumed it was because he wasn't homosexual. You were fairly certain that wasn't the case, but you didn't press him on it, because it was his prerogative to be whatever he wanted to be and frankly, you didn't want to alienate the kid by making assumptions. On the other hand, the troll boy still seemed to be having difficulty adjusting to the change, and quite conspicuously still had feelings for your son, though he tried hard to hide them; you filed that one little thought away, for later perusal. At least, you justified it as such, though really you just loved tormenting Karkat.

 

Vriska, ever the conscientious moirail, throws herself at him in the beginning of the night with a furious hug, claiming that she can't stay long as she has to get back to helping her mother with some business. That's the most depressing news of John's evening, but for the entire time she stays they're together, enjoying the evening as best they can. At one point she pours a glass of punch over his head. It's all very amusing, to you at least, and though John seems a bit put out, he doesn't fuss; he's used to Vriska's shenanigans by now, and truth be told, he loves it more than anybody. She can keep up with his own shenanigans and he's both proud of, and terrified by, that.

 

Others come and go – Equius greets John with a handshake that would have crushed anyone else's fingers beneath its feather-light yet titanic grip, but John is as full of mangrit as his father was, and he takes it with pride. Two equally strong boys, sharing something no one else can; it's a wonderful sight for your old, embittered eyes. Eridan is as pretentious and rude to John as ever, but they chat quite a bit, and it's still fairly obvious to you that they're close, because Eridan doesn't hit on John anymore, and John puts up with Eridan. It's a give-and-take friendship that you'd like to think they both treasure.

 

Tavros, Nepeta, Gamzee and Terezi all approach John together. They know him through the club they're all members of, and though they're good friends, they know Dave and Jade better. It's still good to see them, though, and it's all very friendly as they discuss this and that. When Aradia joins them later, things settle down a bit – she's a very relaxing character, calm and soft-spoken – and after a while they set themselves down at a table and start playing a game, the five of them. They're joined by the others later, when the building's cleared out.

 

Feferi arrives with a boy you don't know, with strange, heterochromic eyes and a disposition that flips between sweet and sour at the drop of a hat. Turns out the boy mentors John at coding, and they're literally the best of friends, much like everyone else is with...everyone else, but the three of them mess around for a while, not really doing much of anything. John and Feferi are still incredibly close, despite whatever they've shared in the past, and this boy, Sollux, doesn't seem to mind, alternately standing by each of them as they chat. It's a nice group, one that works well, and you're quite happy to meet the boy when you finally do. He's a genius, you learn, both arrogant and self-deprecating, but John likes him, and Feferi likes him, and you've come to see Feferi as something of a daughter to you, so you give him your seal of approval. He's grateful.

 

The last girl you meet is a shy, ever-so-slightly reserved girl by the name of Kanaya, whose tendencies are towards things like fashion, horticulture, medicine, and the like. She's very, very clever, and extremely likeable, so once she's spoken to John (they chat for a while about all sorts of things, the way all good friends do, and they definitely seem to get along as well as any of the others would) you take the time to talk to her. You end up spending most of the evening discussing all sorts of things. She has an impressive resumé.

 

The entire evening goes off without a hitch, and when the Wise Viceroy and the Articulate Registrar turn up to discuss a business partnership with you (and to badger John as they always do), you wind things down for the night. People begin to leave amicably, giving John their regards, their comforts, their gifts, all the usual party fare.

 

At least, they do, until someone else turns up, flowing through the open doorway as though they are a ghost. You don't know her. She's absolutely enchanting, a dark, dangerous beauty if you've ever seen one, and she carries herself with a dainty elegance unbefitting of someone in such tattered rags. Her eyes sparkle, glittering violet, and her blonde hair hangs low over her face in a way that seems strongly reminiscent of the Strider girl. She swims in a pool of darkness that clings to her every fiber, oozing out of the pores of her skin, but she's defiant, defiantly human, and the purpose in her eyes as she walks towards the little group of kids and trolls that's formed around a table in the corner is frightening. You haven't felt this energy, this stagnant shadow, since you fought Fluthlu in the last great battle before your fight with the Kingpin.

 

On your way past you, she stops to throw a quip in your direction, something about Fluthlu sending its regards. You are suitably horrified by the revelation.

 

The moment the kids notice her they rush to her side, faster than you've ever seen anyone move, and they're immediately crowding her, absorbing her in an unstoppable tide of embraces and words that, you notice, she enjoys with great abandon. Someone says her name, and you, again, are suitably shocked.

 

This girl is Rose Lalonde, and she is currently revelling in being mobbed by your son and his friends.

 

*

 

The next year passes without much in the way of incident. You believed that you had respected Kanaya immensely, and you still do, but your admiration for anyone else is subdued as soon as you first deign to converse with Rose.

 

She's not the most sensible girl, and she allows her emotions to get the better of her quite often, but you attribute that more to the influence of the Horrorterrors throughout her life than her own folly. Otherwise, she's a genius, capable of verbally sparring with you on even ground, with a degree of perception and planning ability that almost makes you feel a little bit jealous. In battle she is a nightmare, fighting like a cross between a demon and a wizard, and her ability to control, to manipulate, to seduce, simply to listen, is unparalleled. She is nigh-unmatched, and where she ends and the Horrorterror-in-training begins, you cannot tell, cannot know. It would drive you mad, or so goes the claim.

 

From what you've learned, those under the auspice of the Horrorterrors lose their humanity as they age, eventually becoming immortal, powerful Horrorterrors themselves. Rose chose a different path, refused to allow herself to be consumed by the eldritch magics she wielded, and so she fought free, becoming a fugitive from SCorp. It's not much of a surprise, nor is her candid acceptance of her situation. She trusts few, relies on fewer, and has no compunctions about putting herself ahead of others, always wary, but she lets her guard down around John, Dave and Jade. They're like a little family of their own, those four, and though she hasn't spoken to them in several years, hasn't seen them since she was four years old, she's done her best to maintain her sanity through them. It seems to have worked.

 

You're happy to offer her your home for as long as she needs it, having known her mother, and further, knowing how close she is to the people you care about. What you're not happy about, unfortunately, is how quickly she sets about “repairing ties” with your son, by which you mean attempting to beguile him with her feminine charms. She's very much enamoured with him, but as always he is completely oblivious, much like he's oblivious to anything which isn't shoved directly under his nose, but the more time they spend together the more you come to realise the darkness around her is receding, little by little. Life seems to be flowing back into her, now that she's not communing with hell itself anymore. You're happy with that, and happier when she asks to join you on the job, because her skills are indispensable to the operation despite her naïveté and inexperience.

 

*

 

During the twelfth calendar year of Pisces, absolutely nothing of note happens besides the strengthening of the interpersonal bonds you've been so careful to set up. John is almost done with school: he's proven himself as a chef, a sleuth, and a leader, though not so much at the programming part (he's got the skills, got the inclination, but things never seem to pan out too well for him), and he's done everything he needs to get going in the world. His friends are at his back, and his life is about ready to really begin. Rose is still with you, though she seems to have given up on John, taking an interest in Kanaya instead after getting to know her. Dave is still around, still searching for his brother, now a disinterested, narcissistic cooldude who somehow always seems to be available to help your son, and Jade is just beginning her climb up the corporate ladder, now that she's been inducted to the Company Executives and given all the near-omnipotence and omniscience that provides.

 

At the beginning of the thirteenth calendar year of Pisces, on the morning of Friday the Thirteenth, in the thirteenth week of the year, nothing happens. You only make note of it because it's an exciting date for superstition nuts.

 

But less than two weeks afterwards, everything falls apart, and your son is the only one who can pick up the pieces.

 

>Problemstuck: initiate jarring perspective and stylistic shift.


	6. Crossing Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY MANAGED TO GET THE CUSTOM STYLESHEETS WORKING, THANK GOD. Too much effort for one person to have to put up with, I swear. This chapter was rewritten heavily from its original posting on the kink meme due to a desire to make things easier on the author who is as lazy a bastard as has ever drawn breath. Convenience first, folks! Character introductions will always be in the pesterlog format, but after that they'll switch to prose dialogue. It's silly, but I like it. I hope you do too!

EB: the year is the thirteenth of pisces, monday the twenty-third, far too early for bad weather.  
EB: the sun rises in the east, slow and ponderous, beginning its ascent above the clouds that gather overhead, choking what little light escapes the steely grey sky.  
EB: it's cold this morning. the bite of the chill wind is enough to make a man's heart ache. things are gloomy, as always, but i'm used to doom and gloom by now. it's normal here.  
EB: in this city, if you don't learn to live like everybody else, you don't get to live at all. not when every shadow hides an assailant, every alleyway home to a thousand terrors.  
EB: it's hell on earth, but i make do.  
EB: my name is-  
  
TT: John.  
TT: What on earth are you doing?  


 

Caught off-guard by the sudden noise, John spun around in place, turning to face his unknown companion.

“Oh, Rose!” The young man's cheeks flushed pink as he made eye contact with the woman in front of him, leaning back against the door with crossed arms and an amused smirk plastered across her face. He faltered for a moment, stuttering. “I didn't expect you to be up so early! Good morning!”

Rose, to her credit, didn't miss a beat. “Neither did I,” she said, waving a hand dismissively in the direction of the open air behind them, “but experience has taught me that sleeping can be a challenge, with you as a room-mate. Knowing you are likely to be perched quite precariously on the edge of your flimsy balcony is an occupational hazard of mine.” She paused mid-sentence, musing for a second before continuing. “And the combination of your soliloquising and the gale-force storm isn't particularly helpful either.”

That was a lie, he mused to himself as he slow clambered off the railing that separated them from the rest of the world. He'd known Rose would wake up eventually, as she always did, and he'd known she'd chastise him as usual, because she enjoyed it so much. In fact, the only thing he hadn't been certain of had been the strength of the storm – itself an unusual occurrence, considering his uncanny knack for guessing the weather. Meteorology itself couldn't compete with John's keen instinct for wind speeds in the City of Midnight.

Behind him (or, rather, in front of him now) his partner sighed, rubbing her temples out of frustration. She'd often had to come and pull John away from his musings here in the past, and doing so was never usually a bother; they'd shared many of their most meaningful conversations over the roaring din of a particularly harsh typhoon, or beneath the swirling, restless skies of Skaian winters. What made this morning so difficult was the strange set of circumstances that had brought her to this point.

It had begun rather harmlessly. As usual, Rose found herself unable to sleep, dreams haunted by the writhing flagella of thousands of curiously prodding darknesses, each a nation unto itself, all very much interested in how she ticked. She'd gone to the kitchen to find herself something to drink, possibly a nice glass of warm milk to calm her mind, and instead she'd ended up discussing her plans for the next year with Mrs. Sleuth, who seemed awfully eager to rope the blonde girl into working with her. After the agonising torture that was being interrogated by her practically-surrogate mother (why she continued to allow her to pry, she'd never understand), she had stealthily made her way back to her room, only to find messages from Kanaya about how she could swear there was something on her balcony that looked far too big to be a bird. That had motivated her to take a look outside, where she had found John, casually resting in a position no other human could, almost lying on the breeze as he did whatever it was that crazy boy did in his “alone time”.

She'd made a point of not telling Kanaya, because the troll girl she'd come to love had the unfortunate tendency of doting obsessively on her friends, much like a mother hen, and knowing that John liked to sleep one sudden movement away from certain death (or, at least, permanent paralyzation) would have sent her into cardiac arrest. In fact, besides herself and Mr. Sleuth, no one knew about John's little habits: she supposed his close connection to the air made him the way he was, but that didn't make it any less worrying.

“Truth be told,” she said, eyes focusing on his own, “You're usually not so conscious, this early in the morning. Is everything alright?”

He balked. “Oh, yeah! It's just that...”

His face scrunched up in concentration. Trying to find the words to get across his feelings had always been a little challenging, and this was no exception. Something stirred in his heart, and though he couldn't quite name it, it filled him with apprehension.

“I'm sort of psyched about today, I guess?”

“Ah, of course. How could I forget?”

Rose's frown turned into a smug smile as she spoke.

“This 'mystery client',” she quipped, shrugging as she emphasised the 'mystery', “of your father's is visiting today, if I recall correctly?”

“He said she would,” he replied, placing one finger on his chin in a gesture of contemplation. “I wonder what she's like?”

“Forgive me for my assumptions,” came the response, still curt and decidedly condescending, “but I am certain that isn't what torments you, John.”

The black-haired boy crossed his arms, eyes downcast. Rose couldn't help but stifle a chuckle; despite that there was less than a year between them, it had always felt more like ten. Sometimes she couldn't tell whether she was talking to an adult, wiser even than herself, or a child, inexperienced and naïve.

“I guess not. It's just that...” He froze in mid-air, voice trailing off into silence. Rose's smile turned warm, concerned, as she reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm.  
“What is it? You know you can trust me, John.”

“I know!” He sighed, slowly slumping to the floor. “I don't know what's wrong. Maybe I'm just nervous...he said he wants me to start working cases, but sometimes I just don't feel like I'm ready.” This time it was John who shrugged, a much more heartfelt, solemn action than Rose had. Just another piece of the puzzle that was Egbert-Sleuth, Rose wondered, crouching to level her eyes with his. “I mean, I'm only eighteen, I haven't even lived my own life yet! How can I help other people with theirs? What if I hurt someone, or I get hurt? What if-”

“John,” Rose interrupted, with a soothing word. The boy in question paused, waiting for Rose to continue, while she sat down next to him, back against the railing, sighing heavily. “I promise you, everything will be fine. There's no reason to worry so much, not when everyone trusts you.”

She shot him a small smile, eyes closed, as she raised her head up to the sky. It had just begun to rain, a light drizzle that pitter-pattered softly upon the soil and stone beneath them, and as she grasped his hand, rubbing a comforting finger along its back, his sad pout slowly turned into a smile.

“Thanks, Rose,” he laughed, sulk quickly melting into cheer. “You're getting better at talking to people!”

It was a strained compliment if ever there was one, but John looked pleased nonetheless, glasses slipping down his nose to frame a picturesque smile, buck teeth and all. It made her happy, too.

“As always, you're welcome.” She let the silly comment slide. Better that way, she thought. “Now, why don't we head inside before the heavens open? I'd much prefer a warm shower to a cold one, thank you.”

“Oh yeah!” Something must have clicked inside the eclectic boy's head, because he brightened, eyes darting up to stare into something in the sky she simply couldn't see. “You go inside, Rose. I'm gonna be a while out here. The winds are playing up and I want to see if I can find out why.”

“John.”

The boy cringed underneath the glare of consternation his beautiful blonde friend directed at him, drawing back towards the edge of the balcony ever so slightly.

“Yes, Rose?”

“If you must talk to yourself, can you keep the noise down?”

He couldn't help but laugh loudly at that, and the warmth of his laughter spurred Rose into giggling too. They sat there together for a few moments longer, basking in the quiet peace of each other's company.

“Sure, Rose, I can do that!” John quipped, rising to his feet. He held a hand out to her and she took it. “Maybe later I can teach you to do it too!”

“Charming as usual,” she jibed back, brushing dust off her clothes as she stood. “Well, I'm off to breakfast.” For a moment she paused to give him a meaningful look. Then, she walked away, graceful feet nearly gliding across the slick surface of the balcony. “I will see you later, John.”

“Bye, Rose!” John shouted after her. “Bon appetit, or whatever Dad always says!”

With another condescending smirk, followed by a small wave, Rose pulled the doors open and strode through them, drawing them shut again behind her. John watched her for a moment, still smiling, before jumping back up onto the railing, barely managing to retain his balance as he shook in mid-air for a few moments.

After a few more minutes of quiet contemplation, hero-worship, and soothing chanting, the buzz of the phone in his pocket, an alarm clock just waiting for its chance to strike, told him it was time he started getting ready for a new day.

*

By the time John had managed to make himself breakfast – nothing fancy, just a few eggs, some toast, and a pastry of his own creation, tentatively titled 'The Harlequin' in honour of his deceased father – have a hot shower to take his mind off his anxiety, and get dressed in something more befitting a hard-boiled rookie cop, his dad had already gone off, without a word. It wasn't a surprise, Problem Sleuth could only be called a wraith in the early mornings, but he knew there was something else behind it, had to be. When he'd offered to make breakfast for him, he had declined, and that made John's already-haywire “danger sense” howl with apprehension.

His mother, on the other hand, had been outright gleeful since she'd woken up. Sleuths always said dames were trouble, and Hysterical Dame-Sleuth was no exception to the rule. From the moment she'd first caught him down the corridors outside the bathroom, in what had to be the most cleverly-plotted ambush in the history of the City, she'd been running at full speed, pushing him into an outfit of her choosing, refusing to stop talking so he could concentrate on his thoughts.

Honestly, he didn't mind. He loved his mother dearly. The problem with it was that she tended to be a bit of a chatterbox, and this morning his impending future had turned her up to eleven. After a lot of fussing and meddling, John found himself thrown in front of a mirror to be admired, and he had to admit, she'd done a good job. In his great big brown overcoat, chequered trilby and stiff, starched pinstripe suit beneath it, he certainly looked the part.

After a few more sessions of hair-combing, outfit-straightening and tie-redoing (a big mess if ever he'd seen one, but he loved his authentic imitation Slimer tie and he'd be damned if he ever wore a suit without it), his mother pronounced him “as ready as he'd ever be” and sent him off with a twinkle in her eyes and a grin on her face.

After that he wandered aimlessly about the house for a while, still uncertain of himself and full of dark, fearful feelings, but by the time he'd completed his second circuit of the house, Rose (herself clad in a stylish black two-piece suit, complete with double-breasted jacket) had officially lost what little patience she had, and dragged him to the garage.

Once there, they had an argument about who would drive, which ended up with John admitting that though he could handle a bike far more skilfully than she could, she had the upper hand with four-wheeled vehicles, and she gracefully sat in the driver's seat as he plopped down carelessly beside her. The car itself was a classic, a vintage Bristol 409 that John had worked for months to afford, and it looked just as much the part as the two teens did, maintained religiously and polished to a pleasant shine.

The trip itself was a short one. Though Sleuth's office was a fair bit away from his home, both John and Rose knew the way like the backs of their hands, including every shortcut, and the fairly light traffic meant they were able to make the crossing in record time. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, and John was thankful, nervously fingering the rabbit's foot he wore around his neck for luck.

After parking the car a block down, the two walked in silence to the office. Rose had linked her arm with John's, hoping it would keep him calm, and it seemed to work; the contact made him breathe out slowly, his fidgeting dying down to the occasional jerky movement. By the time they made it into the lobby of the building, towards the elevator that would carry them up to Sleuth's office proper, John had accepted fate, resigned to whatever would come. His relaxation, in turn, calmed Rose, herself a little giddy from worry, and as the lift carried them up towards the top of the building, the atmosphere around them became less tense, awkward silence replaced by a companionable one.

When the door opened, John signalled for Rose to leave first, and she did so, striding past in a manner appropriate for someone so confident. John followed after, holding the lift doors open for a couple of passersby out of courtesy, before sprinting to catch up with her as they rounded the corner that led to Sleuth's abode.

Three precise knocks from Rose later and the door swung open to reveal a lavish, well-kept office, its owner sat by the window, enjoying a cigar.

*

Rose sat herself in the chair nearest to the water-cooler, and handed a drink to John, who seemed to need it quite desperately, judging by his shaking. The boy himself sat directly in front of the city's foremost Problem Sleuth's desk, still nervous, but upright, defiant, proud. That made Sleuth smile, and he made sure to show it, casually glancing at each of them with a bright beam.

PS: Morning, John, Rose. Took your time, didn't you?

Rose smiled in return, a hawk's smile as she eyed the elder carapace. “We were otherwise occupied,” she answered, bowing slightly, “as you can imagine, I'm certain.”

PS immediately grimaced, not entirely sure he wanted to know what she meant by that. The teasing road suddenly looked much less palatable to his tastes.

“Yeah, Dad, sorry!” John looked contrite, a startling contrast next to Rose, nonchalantly settling herself into her seat. “It's sorta like that time in Con-Air when Cameron told Casey he'd be back in time for her birthday, but then-”

Sleuth held a hand up in the air for silence. “There's no need to ramble, son.” At that, the younger man took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. The elder detective could appreciate how he felt. “I heard your nerves were acting up. Just take it easy.”  
A kindly smile in John's direction was all it took to finally deflate the boy, who slumped in his chair, rumpling his nice new suit. PS frowned a little, but John was too busy rubbing his eyes to notice, finally a little less tense.

“I was just so worried, dad. You don't even know.” He shivered a little then, as if recalling something highly unpleasant. Sleuth raised one eyebrow, slightly intrigued. “Mom told me you forgot to take breakfast? I thought I could bring you some food, if you like?”

John stood, handing a small brown lump to the carapace-man, who snatched it hungrily, tearing into the packaging with reckless abandon. Rose and John grinned at each other, knowing that would be enough to get the other man into a more amicable mood.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, through a mouthful of food, “you have no idea how hungry I was.”

John looked quizzically at PS, who carried on devouring his meal. It was difficult to tell what he'd said over a mouthful of meat and pastry.

“Anyway,” Sleuth said, swallowing, “time we got down to business, I think.”

“Wipe your mouth, dad,” John whispered, lifting a finger; Sleuth did, back of his hand wiping crumbs away from his mouth with a gruff sound of assent.

“Our client's coming in soon. This is first contact. She's been infuriatingly vague so far, and we've had no real contact besides correspondence, so we have to take this pretty damn seriously.”

“Of course,” Rose replied. “Am I to leave you both to it?”

“No way, Rose.” Sleuth's tone had an air of finality no one in their right mind would have dared argue with. “You'll be working this case with John, at least until he's okay with taking the streets alone. Then you're free to do...” For a moment, Sleuth was utterly speechless. “...Whatever it is you crazy broads do in your spare time.

Rose scoffed, eyes mirthful as she sneered back.

“And if I refuse?”

“Why would you do that, Rose?” John's expression, a profoundly sad puppy-face that she knew was designed solely to extricate guilt from its victim, was enough to make her reconsider even asking the question.

“I wouldn't, of course. Purely hypothetically the option would be nice, however. Certainly after a remark like that I am entitled to be a little insulted?”

“Well,” Sleuth drawled, letting the short silence drag as he cracked his knuckles, “I'd be disappointed.” He leaned forward in his chair, giving Rose what had to be the most piercing evil eye she'd ever seen. “John? He'd probably be hurt. If you hurt John, I might have to stop letting you take advantage of my charity.”

Next he pulled a pen from a pot at the corner of them table, idly rolling it across the finely-lacquered surface. Rose couldn't help but stare at it. “I may even tell your mother what a bad little girl you've been being, staying with us and not telling her. You may have to deal with her.”

“And the final nail in my devilishly well-constructed coffin?”

“What coffin, doll? This is all purely hypothetical, right?” Now Sleuth sank back into his chair, satisfied as he dabbed at the papers on his desk with the pen. The stare Rose directed at the Sleuth was still mirthful, but now tinged with an edge of defiance, as if daring him to take action.

“Naturally,” she eventually answered, defeated and yet surprisingly unaffected by it. “I would never leave John to his own devices. Not with the fate of the city at stake.”

John still looked mildly indignant. “You say that every time!”

“I can't recall a time it hasn't been merited,” Rose retorted, poking at the younger man's shoulder. “You tend to cause problems.”

“I do not!” He shot back, gazing accusingly at her as he clutched the space above where his heart was. “Geez, Rose. You're never on my side. That hurts reaaaaaaaal bad, Rose!”

“My heart breaks for you, John!” Rose cried with exaggerated sympathy, swooning as she held a dainty hand to her brow. PS interrupted with a fake cough, a single clearance of the throat that immediately grabbed the attention of the other two.

“Much as I'd love to sit here and listen to you two banter back and forth all day, I need you to stand up. I think our guest is outside.”

“Really?” The tone of John's voice was unusually hushed.

“If the footsteps coming up to the door are any indication? Yes.”

Sleuth's statement was confirmed by a thunderous, rapping knock, almost eerily well-timed. John stood, moving towards it, but by that point the elder man was already there, drawing the door wide open to greet the guest on the other side.

John, gaping as he was, did not notice Rose shoving him off to the side, nor did he recognise the sound of her voice telling him to “close your gaping jaw before you make yourself look even more stupid”.

“Sis!”

The woman who practically glided through the door was about seventeen years older than he was, and he still couldn't help but turn red in the face whenever he saw her. The amount of times Dave had chastised him for "macking on my sister like shes the last bike on skaia and youre mr mangetout" had ended up numbering far more occasions than he could remember, but he couldn't help himself; she was absolutely gorgeous, like Rose but...more mature, more dangerous. How it was possible to be more dangerous than Rose he'd never know, but somehow she pulled it off.

They'd managed to develop something of a rapport, despite her mysterious nature, and that made him even more shy and embarrassed around her, too afraid of saying something stupid and humiliating himself to strike up conversation unless she started it. She probably knew, he was sure she must have, but she never mentioned it, so he was fine with doing the same.

This time she looked distraught, dishevelled, all the other 'dis' words that made people look pitiable. John couldn't help but gawp, heart going out to her, but he had Rose as a foil, thankfully, and she eyed the woman with suspicion. They'd never gotten along particularly well, and now would be no exception...even if she did appear to be completely out of it.

“Strider?” PS gaped. “You're the client?”

The Strider in question straightened up, still teary but substantially more imposing, iron will reasserting itself. Her words were quiet, measured, but still suave as always, the voice of someone implacably sure of themselves.

SS: sleuth.  
SS: i need your help.  
SS: ive been discreet so far because theres no other option  
SS: but now its too late for that.

Sleuth took one of her arms, leading her to a chair, before sitting her down, pulling a notepad and pen from his sylladex. His face was utterly expressionless, but his eyes burned with the fires of curiosity and passion, stoic and purposeful, as he rubbed her back soothingly. Rose mock-wretched, a little callously, John thought.

“Tell me what the problem is.”

“You remember Bro, I assume?” Her voice nearly cracked on every other word, but she held together admirably. John respected her for that.

“He's the sort of guy you don't forget,” Sleuth snapped.

John didn't have a particularly good memory of the elder Strider boy. He'd disappeared when he was fourteen, and they'd never really interacted much beyond that, but hearing his dad and Dave talk about the guy, he'd always wondered about him. Apparently he was unforgettable. How he'd managed to remember so little about such a legendary man eluded him.

“What about him?” Sleuth's tone was inquisitive, prodding. “What does he have to do with these pointless messages you've been sending me?”

“I sent you a message a few weeks ago, the first one, right?” The carapace nodded at that. “They're the same messages Bro's been sending me. I didn't really know why. A couple of days ago, though, I got wind of a rumour through some official channels.” Strider suddenly clenched, head in her hands.

“Come on, speak up now,” Sleuth cooed, dropping down onto one knee to hold her quaking shoulders steady.

“He's a fugitive,” she barked through the beginnings of tears. “They're saying he killed a guy!”

John, shocked out of his carefully attentive reverie, leant over to Rose, herself still standing, arms crossed with a fierce glare directed at Strider, and started whispering furiously into her ear.

“What? Really?!”

“I don't know, John.” Rose sighed, brushing a few stray strands of golden hair out of her face. She looked contemplative, face drawn in concentration, and John wondered what she was thinking about.

“It could be that she is truthful. Strider may well be on the run.” She tossed her hair, hawklike gaze still firmly set on the other woman, eyes narrowed in concentration, before she spoke again. “If there is one thing I can smell here, however, it's a rat. This is terribly out of character for her. The tearful damsel in distress? Please. If she expects anyone to believe her besides you, she is sorely mistaken.”

“Hey!” John let that thought settle into his head for a moment. “I think she's telling the truth.”

“Exactly.” Again, Rose sighed, exasperated, as she looked at him. He hoped his angered glare conveyed his own irritation, but instead it just seemed to make her laugh. “Still, I believe this warrants further examination. Dare I say it, if there is something going on here I cannot sit back and let you wander into it alone. Someone has to watch your back.”

“...Thanks, Rose,” he mumbled. “I can take care of myself, though!”

A dismissive wave of the hand and a smirk later, and they were both focused on Strider and Sleuth again, who seemed to be poring over a document she'd brought. Sleuth appeared very interested in its contents.

“You're going to have to give me time to look this over, dollface. There's a lot of bullshit in here that'll take an eternity to sift through.”

“How long will you need?” Sis groaned.

“As long as it takes.” Sleuth snapped the folder shut, laying it down on the table behind him. “Now scram, the kids need to hear this. We'll deal with it, don't you worry your pretty little head.”

“Fuck you, Sleuth,” she growled back, taking a step in the other direction. “You fucking misogynist pig.”

Sleuth laughed then, a sharp bark that made John jump a little in his seat, as he moved to sit down behind his desk. At the same time, Strider made her way to the door, stopping only to shout one last thing at them all.

“Don't believe anyone who says my brother is a criminal.” Sis' head drooped in the light of the corridor, casting what John swore was a mournful shadow across the length of the room's floor. “He's a good guy, you know that.”

At the other end of the room, Sleuth hung his head.

“Yeah, I know.”

Then the door slammed, a final note of dismay and confusion resounding in the silence of the room, and the three people left behind started shuffling around, sitting themselves around the desk in the centre, ready for a discussion.

*

“What is this, Sleuth?” Rose slammed her fists down on the desk, leaning over it to glare at PS as harshly as she could muster. “Why didn't you throw this back in her face? Why are you trusting her?”

“It's a job, Rose,” the man muttered, wiping away some of the sweat that had gathered on his brow with a summoned handkerchief.

“You know exactly what sort of person she is!” Now Rose was roaring, burning with a fire John had never seen in her before, one that veered dangerously between passionate and destructive. “You are throwing us into a den of wolves on behalf of their mother, simply because she came here dressed in sheepskin! She is a scheming bitch who manipulates people for a living!”

“Could say the same of you, Lalonde.” Sleuth appeared to be having no more discussion. “Now shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down. There's a lot here we need to look over, and I can't have my best girl getting hysterical.”

John was totally unprepared for Rose's cursing in the broodfester tongue, a sharp “Kzhp'fxx!” bursting inside his head. His ears rang sharply with the noise, a reverberating scream of thousands upon thousands of voices that squabbled for purchase on the edges of his thoughts, threatening to corrupt him; as he fell from his chair, hands clapped over his ears, Rose swore again, an unintelligible sound, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and rocking him back and forth, back and forth, until, by the time the pain melted away, leaving nothing more than white noise and the muffled sound of tears being shed into his hair, he had the strength to produce a small 'meep' sound.

“Watch your language, young lady!” Sleuth cried, jumping over the table to check on John as Rose drew away. John could feel her eyes on him, and he hoped she was okay. He knew she couldn't control it sometimes.

With a pronounced huff of dissent, masking barely-contained tears, Rose swooped into her chair. Next to her, John held his chin in his intertwined hands, mulling over what he'd seen so far as the pain in his head slowly subsided.

The morning's events had played out almost unrecognisably compared to how he'd imagined them, but one thing remained constant: a beautiful woman had come to the office, asking for their help. Not specifically his, but he figured that wouldn't happen for a good few years yet; the fact that it happened to be his best bro's older sister, asking them to save her brother, was really just a technicality. A detail. He could afford to ignore the details when it came to upcoming adventures.

“Dad?” John's voice was still scratchy, hard to hear, but he soldiered on through it. “What's going on? What did she give you that's so important?”

“This?” Sleuth said, looking at the wad of papers in his hand. Hastily the detective shoved them into an open drawer in his desk, guilty expression on his face. John wasn't amused. “It's nothing important. Look with more than your eyes for once, kid.”

This time it was John's turn to scoff. “More than my eyes, Dad? I'm not Terezi. I can't do the weird nosey-smelly thing or anything cool like that.”

“Try not to be an idiot, kid,” Sleuth moaned, rubbing his temples, “this is important. The subtext there is what counts. Rose is right. Roma's family, but I wouldn't trust her as far as PI could throw her, and he can barely lift a pen sometimes.”

“The point is, she's dangerous on every level, even if she looks like she's not,” he continued. “Don't judge books by their covers, kid. Nice pictures don't mean good writing.”

“And here,” Rose added, voice quiet, wavering apologetically, “the writing may not be Poet Laureate material, but it's clear enough even for Terezi to read.”

“This stupid girl's damn right.” Sleuth leaned back, taking a long drag on a newly-lit cigar. The thick grey smog he breathed out choked the air, giving John a violent coughing fit. Sleuth smothered it quickly. “Sorry, kid. I always forget.”

John waved the smoke away, still coughing, still in pain, and definitely miffed about being the only person to be hurt twice consecutively in the day. “It's okay, Dad, I can deal with it, I think...”

“Anyway, point is, Rose is right, as usual.” The detective patted the younger boy's back lightly. “There's more here than we're being allowed to see, so we've got to draw back some curtains before we can shine any more lights. Right now, all I know is Strider is in deep shit. In fact, just saying that is doing a disservice to Strider's shit-diving.”

“A sty so foul it makes Midnight City look clean by comparison,” Rose chimed in.

“If I'm right, the ocean itself hasn't got depth to match the shit Strider's stumbling around in,”

“Worrying.” For her words, Rose didn't look too worried, John noted as he nodded along, mind ambling forward aimlessly. At least, until the pieces it kept finding finally came together.

“Holy shit!”

“Glad to see you're with us, kid.” Sleuth rubbed his good eye with the palm of his hand. “Yeah, if this shit belongs to the bowels I think it does, it's holy indeed.” John wasn't sure what to make of that, but he let it slide, preferring to wait for Sleuth to finish talking. “I'm sending you out. Your first mission. Aren't you pleased?”

John was pleased. More than that, he was speechless, mouth agape with all the dignity of a gorilla, practically comatose from the excitement, the nerves. Rife with anticipation.

That opportunity, the chance to go out into the world, help others, prove himself a hero, had been John's dream for longer than he could remember. Miss Strider being the client was just the icing on the finely-designed layer cake; if he succeeded, if he saved Bro, she would notice him for more than simply being Dave's brother.

Rose might have disapproved – her contemptuous stare at PS spoke volumes about how his decision made her feel – but that didn't matter to John, not when his future was at stake, and the prize was success. It felt like he'd been waiting for that moment all his life. The chance to go out, into the most hellish cesspool ever inhabited by any species, in any place, at any point in time, and make a difference. The liveliest city, for the coolest cats. The filthiest hive of scum and villainy. And beside him, with luck, his closest friend, his sister-from-another-mother, an integral part of his little quartet, fighting to prove herself the same way.

What more could they have asked for?

“I'll do it.”


	7. Backlash

John's first few steps out of Sleuth's office were tentative, more a shambling gait than a confident one. The weight of what he'd chosen to accept hung over his head like a ton of bricks suspended in thin, spider-silk netting, just waiting for the opportunity to drop and crush him with realisation; he pushed what thoughts he could to the back of his mind, taking a few deep breaths. He hoped they'd clear up a little of his anxiety.

 

He hung back to wait for Rose, herself still engaged in a fiery discussion with Sleuth. From what little he could hear they were arguing about her attitude, again. He couldn't make out much, but he knew all the lines to this one already: Rose needed to learn her place, Sleuth had to stop being so controlling all the time, Rose better move the fuck out of his home if she doesn't like his rules, Sleuth knew John would be lost without her, and so on. He felt more than a little indignant at the idea that he couldn't function without her, but he did understand why she was the way she was – all of them were antsy, tense, constantly on the lookout for SCorp intervention, and none of them could afford to be fighting at a time like this. Or, hell, ever. That was his firm belief.

 

As a variety of different people passed the boy sitting on the sofa in the corridor outside the office, most dressed to the nines in garb that screamed importance, John wondered what exactly was taking those two so long. Usually their arguments were short, explosive affairs, ending in days of protracted silence and passive-aggressive conflict, but this time something seemed different. Was it Sis? Did Rose really dislike the Strider mother hen so much that she had to take it out on his dad?

 

When the door swung open, John drew back into his chair, slightly shocked at the sight. Rose, still carrying herself with dignity, stepped out into the hallway and shut it quietly behind her, eyes closed. He stood, careful not to move too quickly, but she paused, opening her eyes to throw him a venomous look.

 

“I despise that man,” was all she said, snarling, before stomping her way towards the lift that had brought them up to the office. John, cleverly, elected to use the stairs.

 

Twenty-two minutes later (he'd counted, out of boredom) he found himself standing on the threshold of the lobby, eyes darting wildly around the room, on the lookout for Rose. A small group of people, dressed in a range of immaculate business suits, huddled around a water cooler, chatting quietly; the only other point of interest besides them was the solitary secretary behind a desk in the centre of the room, dealing with a stack of paperwork nearly as tall as she was. She looked more than a little worked up, and John sympathised.

 

Stepping out into the open space, John cast another eye over the room. Finding nothing, he walked as coolly and calmly over to the secretary as he could, only tripping over his own feet when she looked at him; she didn't seem too fussed about his presence, despite the massive sheaf of paper that threatened to topple over her entire workspace.

 

“Excuse me!” He said, perhaps a little too loudly for his own good, or so he thought, feeling a large number of gazes collectively shift towards his back. The woman still looked mildly displeased about the papers, glaring at them with a stare that could burn through walls, but he rested his hands on the wooden counter and shot his most radiant smile at her. She smiled in return, features softening, and he thanked his lucky stars that people seemed to be quick to lower their guards around him.

 

“How may I help you?” was the first thing out of her mouth, as she fiddled with her hair, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear.

 

“Um, well,” John stuttered, “I'm looking for a friend of mine. She's this really pretty girl, with gold hair and violet eyes, but she's really angry right now for some reason and I don't know where she's gone and it's really, really worrying.”

 

Resting her chin in one hand as the other placed itself on the counter, next to his, the secretary smiled. “I saw someone like that earlier, heading out of the doors towards the parking lot. You might still be able to catch her if you hurry.”

 

“Thanks!” John said, grateful that she hadn't picked up on his inability to control his mouth. Smiling and waving as he turned away, he walked towards the doors, careful not to slip on the newly-washed floor, pushing them aside with alacrity.

 

A blast of cold air hit John in the face the moment his feet crossed the doorway, as if welcoming him back to nature, and he inhaled deeply, pausing to take a look around. The skies were almost beckoning him to come join them, thick grey clouds whirling around overhead, and for a moment he wished he was capable of flight, so he could finally just go right up to the sky, where his body always seemed to feel it belonged. Down the street a young man argued with an elderly man, animate and livid, and John sighed, whistling a merry little tune as his feet carried him in the opposite direction, towards the place where Rose had parked his car.

 

After a few minutes of briskly-paced walking, winds pushing at his back, John turned a corner and came face-to-face with his car, upon which Rose leaned, tapping her feet impatiently as she stared at the ground. John hoped she'd stopped fuming.

 

“Hi, Rose!” he laughed, startling the girl out of her reverie, and she looked at him, a long, hard look that stared deep into the darkest recesses of his soul. At least, that's what it felt like, though others often told him his soul didn't have any dark recesses, and he stood stock-still for a few moments as she sized him up, expression calm.

 

A few seconds later, she sighed, idly dismissing him with a wave of her hand. He relaxed in return, slouching a little as he trudged over to the car, and together they pulled their doors open, still mostly silent save the sounds of heavy breathing.

 

In the driver's seat, Rose took a few moments to play with some of the car's settings. Now that they weren't in a rush, she had opportunity to make everything comfortable; she savoured John's restlessness as she moved the mirrors around, adjusted her seat, changed the radio station – itself not even powered up – and messed around with as much as she could get away with, every passing moment becoming more and more awkward.

 

By the time she'd gotten around to simply flicking the same switch on and off repeatedly, John couldn't take the silence any more.

 

“Rose, come on, what's up? What's the big deal?”

 

“The big deal, John,” she sighed, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, “should be obvious. Even to you. Can you not see it?”

 

“Nope!” His sullen expression made her chuckle inwardly. It didn't pack any punch whatsoever, making him look more like a kicked puppy than an angry man. She hoped that, at least, would never change. “Sis is family! I don't see why we can't help her.”

  
“John, I will spell it out for you if need be.” Now she turned her head, to look him directly in the eyes. He pulled back a little, flinching. “The Striders have always been, and will always be, bad news. This case? Nothing but trouble. You have my guarantee. With a certified one hundred percent rate of satisfaction.”

 

John frowned. Rose tended to be a bit alarmist, even at the best of times, and he knew they weren't that bad. Just because people thought she was very perceptive didn't mean she was right, and he trusted Dave, trusted Sis. What did he have to worry about?

 

“Sis is family,” he finally said, in the wake of a few moments of deliberation. “Dave is my best bro, too. I trust them, and that's really all there is to say on the matter!”

 

Rose sighed. As usual, the boy's resolve was unshakeable. Faith seemed to be the thing that drove him forward, but it drove _her_ mad, and the prickling at the base of her spine, the one that told her when something was up with terrifying accuracy, refused to relent. She decided to ignore it, at least for a little while, until she could find evidence of her suspicions. Otherwise she'd end up pushing John away, and she couldn't have that.

 

“When you find yourself neck-deep in their shit, don't say I didn't warn you,” she muttered, twisting the keys in the car's ignition slot. The car burst into life with a guttural roar, and Rose slammed her foot down on the clutch, mouth working silently out of anger; as they pulled out of the lot, John sank back into his seat, watching the world fly by as they sped along the road.

 

“So where exactly are we going?” he asked, pulling his handheld PDA out of his sylladex.

 

“I'm not too sure myself,” Rose said in response, careful to avoid the cat that jumped in front of the bonnet of the car. “Sleuth told me very little. Did he mention anything to you?”

 

“No,” John said, puzzled. “Really? Huh, Dad's usually really attentive about stuff like that. Maybe you just forgot?”

 

“Perhaps I did,” she replied with a smirk. “I wouldn't be surprised. He dropped some motherfuckin' science on my ass, if I do say so myself.”

 

“What were you arguing about anyway?”

 

“He doesn't trust the world with you, truthfully,” she growled, swerving to avoid a pothole. John held onto his seat, thrown around a little by the sudden movement, but Rose was a careful driver if ever there was one, quickly reasserting herself on the road. “In his eyes, you are a treasured porcelain doll, one that no one is careful enough to handle.”  


“That's...” John paused, searching for the right words. “Really stupid.”

 

“I said so myself,” Rose sighed, wiping her brow with the back of one hand as the other moved to change gears. John leaned over to hold the steering wheel, laughing all the while; when Rose slapped his hand away, a little miffed by the action, he made a mental note of it, sure to add it to his Prankster's Gambit later.

 

“Thanks! I always wanted a girl to defend my honour,” John chirped, laying a hand on her shoulder. She brushed it off with a practiced smirk.

 

“Charming, John.” That made him laugh. “First of all, please don't add that to your Gambit, or whatever it is you amateur pranksters use to measure your worth.” The smile on his face drooped a little at first, then ballooned. Rose simply knew him too well. She was the best at reading John Egbert-Sleuth there was, he had to admit. “Secondly, John, he might be right. I haven't told anyone anything about this yet. I may in the future. If I do, anyone I tell will probably flip out.”

 

“Why?” The fact that people seemed to see him as an innocent little snowdrop always annoyed him. He could take care of himself! How would he have lived so long in the City of Midnight without being able to watch his own back? “I can take care of myself!”

 

She took her eyes off the road to give him the world's most amused sneer.

 

“I know you can. Why you choose not to is beyond me.”

  
“What?” The boy in the coat shouted indignantly, meeting Rose's eyes with a horrified stare. “I do take care of myself! This is stupid.”

 

“Don't look at me like that, John. You know full well I'm right, as always.” John slunk back into his seat, knowing what was coming next from years of experience. “You're not weak, and you're not stupid. You know what it takes to get by in this city. But you refuse to put yourself ahead of anyone else! You wear your heart on your sleeve! You trust too quickly, you have this childlike wonderment for everything you see, you're some kind of...”

 

John held a comforting hand out, in a futile attempt to steady his friend. She'd started shaking, giving the road a particularly potent evil eye, and the way her eyes seemed to flare with a deep, black light was more than a little scary. She occasionally slipped, letting a little too much darkness into herself, but it never stopped sending him out of his wits with fear for her.

 

“Hey, Rose, calm down, okay?” He grinned, hoping his support would be enough to pacify her. “I get that. But I'll be fine, I promise. I'm a tough renegade with a heart of gold, remember?”

 

As they drove on in silence, John's humming and strong, steady grip slowly soothed Rose, coaxing her out of her...bloodeldritch throes, or whatever she liked to call them. By the time they'd parked outside the garage in which John stored his bike, she'd returned to normal, and she smiled at him, a small, sincere smile that made him grin radiantly in return.

 

“Ymfsp'dtz, John,” she mumbled, rubbing away the last tatters of darkness clumping at the edges of her eyes like sleep-dust. “You're an idiot sometimes, but as long as you're around to be an idiot, we'll all be happy, I'm sure.”

 

“Now who's the one that's charming?” the boy in question joked, extending a hand to help her out of the car. As usual, she shrugged him off, but he simply laughed, grabbing her sides and lifting her up into the air. She found herself sitting on his shoulders, still a little bit irritated but largely content, and they pulled the garage door open, struggling a little when the steel sheet was caught by a dent in the frame.

 

“Alright, here we are,” he said, taking a moment to admire the innards of the spacious little shack. Not much, but it was enough for him; he'd earned the money to rent the place himself, to show Sleuth he was mature enough, and responsible enough, to be able to take care of his own deathtrap. Supplies were littered clumsily around the place, forming a circle around the prize in the centre of the room that nearly glowed with shininess.

 

And what a prize it was, he thought as he ran a hand over the metal. Kept like a newborn, with a beautiful, untarnished lustre, the bike looked very much like it had only just been put together, aside from a few deftly-hidden scratches here and there that he hoped could only be found if you knew where to look. Beside him, Rose appeared unimpressed, maybe even a little bored, but he knew it was just because she'd seen it, and ridden it, enough times to lose most interest; the first time he'd shown her his 'Iron Stallion', as Dave had named it (in a rare moment of what John had assumed was awed sincerity, but really came off more like mockery than anything else) she'd almost wept with amazement.

 

“This bike of yours never fails to amuse me,” Rose quipped, strutting over to stand next to the thing. John gasped.

 

“Don't laugh at Liv!” Rose swore she could see the beginnings of tears gathering at the corners of the boy's eyes, so she held her hands up in a gesture of defense and, hopefully, apology. “She's my beauty! I love her!”

 

Rose couldn't help the snort that escaped her lips at that, piggish though it was, and when she broke down into laughter, John did too.

 

“John, I will never understand you,” she eventually chuckled, wiping a stray tear from her eye as they pulled themselves together. John looked at her, himself smiling, and they shared a quiet moment of companionable peace.

 

Until his phone rang, blaring the insufferable melody of 'How Do I Live' loudly enough to shatter any normal person's eardrums. Rose covered her ears.

 

“Oh!” Coming to a startling realisation, John snatched the phone from his pocket, fumbling with it in his hands as he tried to get a proper hold on the unfortunate piece of tech. The call had very nearly been dropped by the time he flipped it open, answering with a frantic greeting.

 

“Hey, kid,” the voice on the other end of the line barked, “almost forgot what I wanted you to do. Would've been a tough break if I sent you off gallivanting around the City with no idea where to go. Get yourself down to the industrial compound, Wind & Shade, down in the inner city. Turns out that's where our little murder trail begins.”

  
“Alright, Dad!” John's cheerful tone was light, airy, and infectious, and Rose could feel her spirits lift as she heard it. She was certainly still frustrated, that never seemed to stop being a thing on the table for her, and on top of that, she was definitely still apprehensive about this whole ordeal, but together, they'd be fine. She hoped. “I'll see you later?”

 

“Take care of yourself, kid,” Sleuth grunted, before cutting the call. The line went dead with a low buzz, and John hung up a second later, flipping the phone shut as he clambered over the bike's saddle.

 

“Jump on!” He shouted, and Rose did, sitting herself down behind John and grasping him firmly as he switched the engine on. As the bike roared to life, she pulled the helmet she'd gotten used to carrying around in her sylladex on, making sure John did the same.

 

By the time the garage door had closed behind them, they were long gone, a flash of light zipping through the city streets toward their destination.

* * *


End file.
